


Opening Night at the Wrecking Ballroom

by callmearcturus



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, Disabled Character, F/F, Father-Daughter Relationship, Found Family, M/M, Overambitious Story tbh, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Unusual Family Structures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Angel Lawrence's life wasn't complicated enough <i>before</i> the secret roller derby career, but now things are just getting ridiculous.</p>
<p>(A story about roller derby, young love, older love, the art of gift-giving, and carving your place into the world like initials into a tree.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The crush of hot air that falls onto Angel as she steps off the bus in downtown Austin is so powerful, it steals the breath from her lungs for a moment with its absolute heat. The transition from the overly-air conditioned bus to the world outside is brutal, and within seconds she’s dragging her hair back and up into a ponytail. The prospect of her hair on her neck is torture, even for the short walk to Hyperion’s headquarters.

It’s only two blocks away from the bus stop, but Angel feels every step. It doesn’t help that it’s midday, and the sun is perfectly situated to soak into the city between the tall buildings, no shade to be found, on this street at least.

A hot time, summer in the city, and not a bit of that urban canyon wind for relief. She walks on the right, close to the store fronts, soaking in every stolen bit of cool air when the shop’s automatic doors open.

All that pales upon reaching Hyperion. The employee door is closer to her than the public entrance around the block, and Angel has her keycard in hand and ready before she even reaches it, waving it under the scanner and tapping in her code with the quick precision of muscle memory before slipping inside and into shelter.

For a moment, she just stands under the vent near the door, head tipped back and eyes closed. It’s great. She’s been living in the south for half her life now, but no amount of time seems enough to acclimatize her to the August heatwave in Austin. At least autumn’s coming. The reprieve will be amazing. She might actually go outside for more than ten minutes at a time.

She gets into the elevator and considers her options for a moment. Her father’s on the top floor. Robotics is on 17. She presses the latter and smiles at the way the honeycomb button panel lights up a sunny yellow.

Angel doesn’t know why everything at Hyperion is set with hexagrams and octagons, but she likes it. It reminds her of a hive of bumblebees, all buzzing around efficiently, working on a million things. Everyone at Hyperion always seems to know what they’re doing, which makes her feel a little better about _not_.

Also, if Hyperion HQ is a hive, that would make her father the queen bee.

Which sounds about right, honestly. She thinks he’d like the crown.

Robotics is built from frosted glass partitions and brushed steel, black carpets and gleaming orange tile floors (hexagons, of course). There are only a few cubicles in Robotics, instead more open spaces with long metal tables scattered with design documents and prototypes. There are interesting projects being worked on, but that’s _always_ the case.

She can ask Rhys. He would know what cool things were on display today.

At the thought, she smiles. She’s seen Rhys so sparingly since she started her classes and since he went back to Robotics.

As she nears his office at the far side of the robotics division, her smile fades. Rhys has the biggest office on the floor, and the one that overlooks the city from the best angle. It’s usually open and inviting, with Rhys exercising an open door policy for the people working under him.

Today, his door is closed. Angel hurries over, dodging the mailboy’s cart with a quick apology. Her hand falls onto Rhys’ doorknob. It’s locked.

It’s remarkable, how quickly her good mood is snuffed out. As she turns back around, she feels… somewhat bereft. Now, everyone buzzing around doing their work isn’t so comforting. Instead, it’s a reminder that she’s not really meant to be here. Not that she’s not _welcome_ , because when your father runs the company, you’re allowed anywhere that isn’t classified. But she doesn’t actually work here, and her—and Rhys isn’t around.

No one says anything upon seeing her, used to having her around. It should help.

Instead, she sort of wishes someone would ask her what the heck she’s doing there just to give her an excuse to scurry away.

“What the heck are ya doing? You looking for Rhys?”

Angel jumps, knocking back into the door and wincing at the sudden, cheerful voice to her right. The doorknob hurts as she nearly falls on it, and she reaches back to rub the sore spot above her hips.

“Whoa hey, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.” Angel turns to the voice and finds a girl wearing Hyperion-brand overalls standing there, her hands lifted placatingly, one flesh and one metal. After so long around Rhys, Angel can’t avoid noticing the hand; it’s myoelectric like Rhys’, but where his is built of clean edges and polygonal shapes, hers is more… industrial, perhaps, with hard casings and exposed hinges on proud display. There’s even a _sticker_ along the bicep: _This Machine Destroys Fascists_.

The girl notices her looking—staring, Angel’s _staring_ and it’s rude—but thankfully doesn’t seem to upset. “Yeah, it’s not as flash as Hyperion’s stuff, but you try doing on-the-fly repair of one of Hyperion’s limbs, yanno? Can’t really slap duct tape on those bad boys.”

“No, no no, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Angel makes herself stop, taking a breath. “My, uh, Rhys, he has a myo too. You…” She laughs, bright and nervous. “You already know that, sorry.”

The girl grins. “Hey, it’s fine. Can’t really work around Robotics without a healthy interest in this stuff, you know? Are you new around here? That why you… kinda look like a cat with tape stuck to its paws?” She holds out her hand. “I’m Gaige, by the way.”

The idea that Angel is _new_ makes her laugh again. Oh, if only. She shakes Gaige’s hand briskly. “Angel, I’m Angel. And no, I’m sort of impossible to avoid around here. Always underfoot of Rhys. I was just wanting to check in on him.”

“I think he got called up by the bossman.” Gaige hitches her thumb back to the elevator. “I don’t think he’ll be gone too long. Wanna stick around? Anyone who’s a friend of Rhys is pretty good in my book.”

The polite refusal is on the tip of her tongue. She could go up and try to catch Rhys on his way out of Dad’s office, or just head home for the day. Angel thinks about it.

But… Gaige lifts her eyebrows and bounces a little on her heels, her orangey-red ponytails bouncing with her, and Angel thinks turning and walking right back out of Hyperion HQ sounds horribly lonely.

“Ah, sure, if you’re not busy. I don’t want to keep you,” Angel says, clasping her hands in front of her, fingers laced and squeezing tight against each other.

“Pppft, nah.” She flaps one hand through the air, and the hinges squeeze just a little, in need of a little care. Though that’s none of Angel’s business, of course. “I’m an intern here, so I don’t get saddled with that old Hyperion 80 hour work week or whatever. I get my own desk, though, c’mere!”

Gaige backwalks along, nearly bumping into the same mailboy that Angel nearly knocked over, and leads the way to one of the desk clusters. A few are situated together, around a column that houses a variety of outlets. Tools or computers or full fabrication machines, all have their specialized plugs and the column has them covered.

Gaige’s desk is small and fairly tidy. Angel sees some blueprints laid out, all stamped with Hyperion’s big, ostentation CLASSIFIED mark.

“Well, seems like they have you working on something interesting,” Angel offers levelly, sitting in the desk chair when Gaige nods to it.

Gaige herself boosts onto the desk and looks down. “Oh, those? No, those are the CL4P-TP design prints. The guy who was working on them got _seriously_ fired, and then the bossman made all the files classified just so we couldn’t discuss the project anymore. It’s kind of hilarious.”

That does sound like her father. Angel smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Bit harsh.”

“Nah, according to Rhysie, it was a long time coming. Hey, _hey_ , that’s cool.”

She’s pointing, and Angel follows it to see her focus is on Angel’s bicep, right under her short sleeves. There’s a tattoo there, a dark blue outline with long parallel lines and dots imitating the look of a circuit board with its weld points and conduits and chips.

Smiling and biting her lip for a moment, Angel says, “Oh, thanks. I’m, uh, I do a lot of programming. Software and theory are my thing more than the practical work you must do around here. I wanted something to—to show that off.”

“ _That_ ,” Gaige says seriously, “is super cool. Man, I want one of those, but I keep bruising my arm in matches, I figure I’ll inevitably bang my arm right on a fresh tatt and end up crying. No one needs to see me cry, it’s ugly business.”

“Match?” Angel asks.

Gaige lifts her chin a bit and plants both her fists on her hips, posing. “I’ve been doing derby for over a year now. You need a blocker to smash a girl into the track, look no further.”

It’s difficult to imagine Gaige on a horse. “Are you… a jockey, or…”

Gaige gasps dramatically. “Angel, not _horsey_ derby! Roller derby! You know…” She mimes something that looks more like a left hook than anything, which doesn’t help much. “Lots of babes on skates tearing up a track?”

Shaking her head, Angel shrugs. “I think I know what you mean but I’m not too familiar.”

The aghast expression on Gaige’s face is funnier than it should be, and Angel covers her mouth as she snickers. Gaige doesn’t seem to mind, though, and carries on. “You live in the… the _delivery room_ for the glorious birth of roller derby, the epicenter of the sport, and you’ve never _been_?” She calms, all the suddenness of a volume knob being spun down. “I’m crushed. This is crushing.”

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you,” Angel says, then looks away quickly. That was a little—but Gaige, she’s known Gaige for all of five minutes and Angel likes her.

The gasp Gaige lets out is _explosive_ , so much that with anyone else, Angel would worry she’s hurt herself or something bad has happened, but already Angel’s starting to understand that Gaige’s reactions to things are a little bit… larger than most.

“You wanna see a match? Oh, oh _man_ , so its sorta between seasons right now and the different leagues are playing games with each other, right?” She pauses, waving a hand. “Why am I asking you, you don’t know, you poor deprived soul… okay, but trust me, Jakobs’ team is playing one of the pro teams and you should totally come see.”

“Jakobs? Like the—“

“Yeah, yeah, all the big names bought teams to make a sponsor league a few years back. ‘Cept Hyperion, but Jakobs’ team is _great_ , I once tried out for them and their pivot, Booticca, she bodychecked me into a wall and _man_.” Gaige sighs dreamily. “It was love, that kind of love that makes you blast “Girl With One Eye” with the windows down, you know?”

Angel has no idea, actually, unsure if that’s an emotion she’s not experienced yet or if Gaige is just using some… interesting nomenclature. Either way, Gaige seems certain about it, and thankfully takes Angel’s head shake with grace.

“Anyway. Match, tomorrow, I think it’s around six, you in?” She claps her hands together, flesh and metal making a strange sound. “Please say yes.”

Suddenly, Angel finds she can’t _imagine_ saying no. “Okay, sure.”

“Awesome, it’s a date! Or, haha.” For once, Gaige sways away, looking contrite for just a second. “Sorry, got excited. I’ve never introduced anyone to derby before. Oh, lemme get you my number. If that’s cool with you.”

As Gaige bends to grab a sticky note and a pen, Angel nods, hoping the warmth in her cheeks is just the remnants of the hot weather outside. “That sounds like fun.”

“What sounds like fun?” A familiar voice says nearby. “There’s no fun allowed. If anyone is caught having fun, I’m firing them.”

Angel looks up and beams at Rhys as he walks over to join them, apparently fresh from the elevator. He has the sort of look to him that often went hand in hand with dealing with her father, tired around the eyes with his arms hanging loose at his sides. Dealing with Dad was sometimes exhausting, even for Rhys.

Standing, Angel turns to face him, stepping closer. She wants to hug him. She knows she shouldn’t. “How was your meeting with Dad?”

Rhys smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Nothing worse than usual. You waiting on me, Angel?”

“I, uh, only if you have time.”

“Always.” He looks past her. “Hey Gaige. Is that diagnostic finished?”

“Not yet, sir, it’s collating on the big computer.” She looks at Angel. “ _You_ said _Dad_ , is… has Handsome Jack _procreated_?”

“Fortunately. About time he put some good in the world,” Rhys murmurs, putting his hand on Angel’s shoulder and grinning when she ducks her head, going pink. “Mind if I steal Angel now?”

“Sure, sure sure. Here, for later.” Gaige hands Angel a folded sticky note and a smile. “Text me and I’ll get exact times for you, okay?”

Angel nods and pockets the note. “Thanks, I will. It was—nice meeting you.”

Gaige waves cheerfully as Angel’s drawn away, Rhys’ hand a comfortable weight on her shoulder as he pulls her along to his office. At the door, he lets go, unlocking and letting them both in.

Rhys hip-checks the door shut behind them before circling his desk and half-throwing himself into his chair. It rolls a bit from the momentum, and Rhys tips his head back, eyes shut. “Christ.”

Angel sits in the chair across from him, pulling one leg up so she can rest her cheek on her knee. “That good, huh?”

Tossing his hands up, Rhys groans. “So your father,” he starts, and Angel grins to herself; when he was _your father_ instead of _Jack_ , Rhys was annoyed with Dad, and Angel took an odd joy from listening to him complain. “He blew off two major meetings to have a three hour lunch with Nisha. So his PA calls me, almost in tears, because Jack’s not around and he’s not at any of the meetings, and no one’s seen him, no one knows where he _is_ , and this PA has no idea what to do.”

“They must be new,” Angel says softly.

“Yeah, there’s that, but Jack could have _said_ —“ Rhys sighs, shaking his head. “Somehow I’m still the person that gets called in for Jack crises, so the short version is I’m going to kill your father.”

If anyone had earned the right to, it was Rhys. Angel lets him sit like that for a while, watching the tension ease from his shoulders. His lips are curled up, though. He’s smiling. Upset at Dad for being casually thoughtless again, but smiling.

“How’s Gortys?” Angel asks, happy to steer them back to safer waters.

“I actually don’t know anymore,” he answers slowly. “I packaged up the software, sent it to the lab. It’s… out of my hands now.”

The project had been lifted from the broken remains of Atlas’ robotics development after Hyperion had bought out the company. She didn’t know the details, but remembered the month Dad had spent in his office just reading boxes full of files and reports bearing Atlas’ branding, sieving through hundreds of documents looking for the things worth preserving. Gortys had been one of the only projects he’d considered viable, some sort of companion robot that’d been in the concept stages when he’d given it to Rhys. Since then, Rhys’d spent most of his time since leaving her working on the personality construct for Gortys.

Angel isn’t even jealous of the robot for having Rhys’ attention. Most days, anyway.

“So, prototype soon?” she asks.

“Ha, no. I might’ve gone a bit… overboard with the, ah.” He lifts his hands, waggling his fingers. “Physical personality aspects, the way Gortys moves, the little idiosyncrasies. I mean, Jack wanted my best work. Now the engineers have to turn all that code into actual locomotion, and that’s going to take forever. Until then…” Rhys shrugs. “I’m sort of… between projects right now.” He frowns, humming contemplatively. “I think that’s why Jack’s being such a pain in the ass. Trying to keep me busy. It’s going to end in me strangling him though.”

At that, she smirks. ”So, after you strangle Dad, could… I have the car?”

Lifting his head, Rhys fixes her with a curious look. “Hm? What for?”

“Tomorrow, I… I have something to do in the evening? I could take an Uber, but if it’s okay, could I…?”

She trails off because Rhys’ face changes. There’s a sudden tension between his brows, a little unhappy line appearing before he looks away, mouth curving down. It’s sad, and Angel feels it like a pang in her chest.

Quietly, Rhys says, “That’s not up to me anymore. You’ll have to ask your father.”

“Oh,” Angel murmurs. “Of course.”

Right. That isn’t Rhys’ job anymore.

She keeps forgetting that.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

  


It was years ago, in the old house before Dad moved everyone out to the villa. All the windows in the house were weird, situated too high off the ground, and Angel had to haul herself up onto one of the wicker barstools around the kitchen island to see the snow outside. In Chicago, this time of year, everything was grey and white, a landscape so cold, Angel felt it in her bones, even inside the warm house. She laid her head down on the worn tiles of the island, watching the snow with her back to the family.

What was left of it, anyway.

Dad and Uncle Tim were in the hallway, and they weren’t being quiet enough. But that wasn’t unusual; Dad never really knew how loud he was speaking. Most days, it didn’t bother Angel.

“I’m not sure I understand this plan,” Uncle Tim said, his voice pitched low.

“What? Movers are coming tomorrow, you’re not packed. Why the hell aren’t you packed yet? I’m not paying for another trip.” Dad’s words were distracted, and bracketed by the sound of packing tape being pulled from its cardboard ring, that distinctive _fwrrrrp_ noise as he sealed boxes.

“No, that’s not what I mean. Jack, stop for a _second_ , come on.”

“Ooooh my god you’re slowing me down _more_. I’m already on a tight schedule here.”

The sounds of cardboard boxes and tape and packing stopped. “This is _really_ sudden, what’s gotten into you?”

“Hyperion’s R&D down in Austin’s making _way_ more headway than the Chicago branch, I need to go down and oversee it, if we’re going to release to consumers before DAHL gets their feet under them again, we gotta go, go, go,” Dad said, punctuating with his fingers snapping, one two three.

“And your wife leaving you has nothing to do with that, huh?”

“Less sh—crap to pack. Gonna be even less if you don’t get a move on.”

Uncle Tim’s exasperated sigh was loud, echoing around the house oddly. With all the pictures and paintings off the walls, most of the furniture gone, sound bounced more, Angel noticed. Everything seemed louder.

“Can you slow down and tell me your plan? I—I mean do you _have_ a plan? Shut up, I’m not talking about your product line. I’m talking about moving to another state a week after your divorce’s finalized. I’m talking about moving Angel to another school—have you got her enrolled in Austin? And what about taking care of her until classes start, you’re going to be working.”

Angel tucked her hands under her knees, squeezing her arms around her legs and shutting her eyes.

“That’s what you’re coming for. I’m paying your rent, and Angel likes you besides. Are you…” There was a sudden chill in Dad’s voice as he stopped, words coming back colder. “Are you saying I can’t do this? I can’t handle this? I’m not the one who bailed on the family, am I? I’m here, I’m going to do this, are you coming or not?”

Uncle Tim’s voice lowered, a tense edge to his words. “Knock it off, I’m not saying any of that. I’m just _worried_ , Jack, jesus, you’re uprooting all of us without warning, I’m _allowed_ to ask you some basic goddamn questions.”

“Language.”

“Oh, shut up.”

For a moment, they both did, the silence deafening, angry in Angel’s ears as she strained to listen, worried they’d just walked further away or started whispering. Soon, though, her father sighed.

“I can make this work. Just not here. Not in Chicago. We’ll go to Austin, before the winter comes and effs us all with its icy bullcrap. Start over there.”

Uncle Tim was quiet for a long moment. “Okay. I’m going to let you have this one, but Jack, seriously, slow down and think everything through, alright?”

Dad scoffed. “Or everyone else can just get to my speed. I’ve got this. Go home, pack your things, moving people are going to be around tomorrow evening and we’ve got tickets out at nine.”

“Oh well,” Uncle Tim said with mirth, “deal’s off. You know I hate the red-eye.”

“Yeah, but you l—like us, so you’ll do it.”

Another deep sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I do."

 

* * *

 

 

Austin was another world from Chicago. It took Angel a few years to figure out what was so different. Both were cities on a lake with tall buildings and unforgiving weather, with life seeping from the seams, with brutal storms and sculptures dotting every open area that had enough room. If she’d written it down in her notebook, stacked everything into neat, clear lists and compared the two places she’d lived, the only major difference that she noticed was snowstorms versus thunderstorms.

After living in Austin, though, the difference came to her, slowly. Chicago was a city like a boa constrictor, its streets ready and willing to _squeeze_ the vibrancy and life out of its people. Austin, though, the people there were bleeding for the city, pouring everything they had into it.

Neither was home.

Or, for a long time, Austin wasn’t home. Then her father brought her a gift.

He was a tall man who walked with his elbows tucked in close to his sides, like he didn’t want to disturb the air around him. He had a metal hand, and Angel stared with wide eyes as it moved, his fingers twitching. His shoulders sloped low, almost timid as he hovered over her, glancing between her and her father.

He had one brown eye, one blue, and smiled pretty under the nervousness.

“Angel, this is Rhys. Do you remember him from the office?” her father asked, leaning on the door frame and grinning approvingly.

She nodded.

“Well, for now he’s your… uh.” Dad scratched his brow, nail against the scar that furrowed through his skin. “Nanny? Caretaker?”

Rhys shrugged and palmed the back of his neck. “Something like that. What’s… what’s all this?” He waved his hand to the mess on her bedroom floor.

Angel looked over the bits and pieces that had, an hour ago, been her desk fan. She’d separated the blades and stacked them neatly, took the rotor to pieces, and now held the wire mesh in her hands, cleaning it with a face cloth.

“I’m making a hovercraft. I saw a picture, it’s really easy if—if you’re not carrying a whole person,” she explained, and lifted up one of her stuffed bears to show Rhys. “This one only weighs two pounds, I think I—I can build it for him.”

Rhys knelt down and picked up one of the blades, turning it over to examine it. “Hm. We might need to curve the blade a little more for up-thrust.” He set it down on the carpet again, right next to the others. “Have you had dinner, Angel?”

She shook her head, and Rhys smiled.

“How about we have something to eat, _then_ build a hovercraft. These projects can go long and I know what it’s like to get caught up and then, whoops, it’s midnight and you forgot dinner.” He tipped his head to the side, color high in his cheeks and eyes soft. “How’s that sound?"

Instead of saying anything, Angel looked over Rhys’ shoulder at her father. He was watching, his own grin easing into something less smug. He looked happy.

Rhys looked, again, between the two of them, biting his lip. “I—I mean, if you want, you don’t have to, I just thought—“

“Can you make macaroni and cheese?” Angel asked.

Stilling, Rhys considered, tapping his fingers on his knee. “Uh, the real stuff or the box?”

“Cheese isn’t supposed to be orange,” Angel replied, pursing her lips.

Rhys laughed. “Well, good thing I know how to make the real stuff then.” He stood again, his legs unfolding, reminding Angel vividly of origami, the little hopping dollar bill frogs that Dad put under her pillow when she lost her baby teeth, twenties that bounced so perfectly she didn’t want to unravel them.

Holding out a hand, Rhys said, “Come on, you’ll… have to show me around the kitchen, I think.”

Behind him, Dad nodded, and vanished back down the hallway.

Angel took Rhys’ hand, pulling herself up, and let herself smile slowly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, already. i write fast when i start new fics. shout out to ren for keeping up with my full tilt pace.

Rhys’ alarm goes off early, before the sun’s even finished rising on the horizon, the street lamps outside just winking off.  He rolls over, mashing his face into his pillow to get close enough to paw at the bedside table. His phone continues to beep merrily at him as he searches for it, in the blankets and then finally under the pillow. Pulling it free, Rhys squints at the display, the light too bright for his sleepy eyes, trying to find the right button to make the alarm shut up.

He notices, perhaps belatedly, that it’s 7AM.

Sighing, he shuts his eyes again, and his weariness is completely unrelated to the early hour.

He doesn’t need to be up at 7AM anymore. It was a relic of his life before. He doesn’t _have_ to get up at sunup to drag Angel’s lazy bones out of bed, sometimes bodily and sometimes through obnoxious music played in her ear. He doesn’t have to make breakfast or drive her to university for her advanced classes. He doesn’t live at the villa anymore, and his commute had a good deal less traffic than it once did.

What a relief, he supposes. Sleeping in is an uncommon luxury.

Rhys frowns, thumbing open his lock screen and checking his email, his work email, and his texts. Nothing new overnight. No one needs him.

He rolls his eyes at himself, dropping his phone back to the bed so he can scrub a hand down his face. “Oh my _gawd_ , get over yourself,” he tells himself sternly. It’s been weeks now and he really needs to move on.

At heart, Rhys is a programmer. Granted, that entails a lot more than just coding languages and logic patterns, but the point is he knows how to make routines and break them.

He deletes the old alarm, something he should’ve done a long time ago, and sets a new one for 9AM. That’s much more reasonable.

Rolling over, he presses his face into his pillow and goes back to sleep with a stubborn single-mindedness.

 

* * *

 

 

One of the nice things about working at Hyperion and the way its president enjoyed throwing his wealth around is the coffee shop on the first floor. In Austin, there are many places to grab breakfast, trendy new shops and old establishments both, but when Rhys feels lazy, when he just wants some fuel before he gets started on his tasks for the day, the place just off the lobby is perfect.

It sits in a perfect spot, right outside the elevators and against one of the tinted glass fronts that overlooks the street. The glass is dark, mirrored on the outside, and it lets Rhys stare out at the cars going by, the pedestrians passing, all without getting any weird looks in return. That alone is all his brain is up to before he’s had a morning pick-me-up, people-watching idly as he waits his turn in line.

At the counter, he peers blurrily at the menu, as if he didn’t have it memorized after so long working at Hyperion. Once upon a time, he was self-conscious about holding up the line. Now, he’s older and cares a great deal less. “I need a… god, give me a matcha latte, I guess? Sure,” he manages after too long deliberating.

“Nah, nah, give him a chai latte, dirty. He needs a better hit than _green tea_ ,” someone says behind him.

Rhys sighs, head falling back to glare upward, because glaring at the President of Hyperion isn’t socially acceptable. “Jack,” he says simply, accusation heavy on his tongue.

“And two pumps of coconut, he loves that crap,” Jack adds, ignoring him. “And a mocha with raspberry and almond milk for me, thanks.” When the barista pauses, looking between them nervously, he goes on with a dangerous, playful edge to his voice: “C’mon, I got people to fire today, are you volunteering to be the first?”

Sighing again, louder, Rhys gives the barista a nod. “If you’re changing my order, you’re paying for it too,” he tells Jack sourly.

“Obviously. Heya, cupcake,” Jack says belatedly. When Rhys turns to look at him, he’s smiling, though it fades when he sees Rhys’ face. “What, are you mad? You need caffeine this early, you just never want to order if because you feel like you should be healthier or something. I’m just doing what you _want_ to do.”

“Uh huh.” Rhys moves down the counter to the pick up area, leaving Jack to pay. Whether Jack’s right or not is a moot point; he’s got that _look_ to him, and Rhys worries that something is about to be dropped on him. Possibly Jack himself, and the man’s a handful on a good day.

And, unfortunately and inexplicably, Rhys is not having a good day.

Two recycled paper cups with little cardboard sleeves are set out on the counter, one marked _Rhys_ , the other just _HJ_. He picks up both of them and starts walking away, justified when Jack falls into step next to him a few seconds later. He hands over Jack’s cup, making a face. He can _smell_ how sweet the mocha is. “How do you drink that crap?”

“I’m too rich to have shame anymore.” Jack holds out the cup to Rhys with a little wrist shake, and Rhys shakes his head, grimacing. “Your loss.”

Rhys is willing to accept that as his due. Regardless, he takes a small sip of his own drink, careful of the heat of it. It’s spicy, clove and cinnamon accentuated by the shot of espresso. It coats his tongue, so _good_ his toes want to curl in his shoes. He can concede that Jack was right about his order; there wasn’t much better.

Jack takes a half-step ahead of Rhys, blocking his path to the main elevator bank. Knowing what he wants without a word being said, Rhys nods and keeps walking, heading towards the executive elevator. If Jack wants him alone, that’s fine. At least the other elevator is quiet; it only opens with a swipe of Jack’s ID card, blocked to most of Hyperion’s people.

Rhys thinks it might answer to his ID card too, but he’s never tried it before.

There’s a conversation going on around him while he’s distracted. He should be paying more attention, but for some reason it’s difficult today. Instead, he watches Jack press the buttons for their floors, his mouth moving, chattering on about something.

He wishes it were something as simple as Jack being a morning person and Rhys not, but that rings hollow even in his own head. It’s not like him to be so withdrawn, but lately…

Rhys bites down a sigh and looks at his own reflection in the elevator wall. He looks tired.

“… And that’s when I opened the sliding pane of my window and dropkicked the Maliwan guy to the pavement.”

That… is enough to make Rhys blink, looking up and finding Jack’s staring at Rhys’ reflection too, eyebrows lifted, mouth a sardonic twist.

“What? Wait, go back, what?” Rhys says, meeting Jack’s eyes in the mirror.

“Well, _that_ got your attention.” There’s a tension in Jack’s voice, weird and uncomfortable. It’s something Rhys has heard before; Jack doesn’t enjoy talking about… about _things_ , and he’s wearing the same pinched look as he always does when he’s forced into it. “S’been weird ever since you moved out.”

Rhys doesn’t ask _what_ Jack thinks is weird now, knows better than to press him. The way Jack gets defensive when he’s pushed is worse than the stilted way he’s—he’s trying to help.

Shutting his eyes and rubbing them with his finger and thumb, Rhys realizes Jack is _trying_. Which frankly is more than Rhys is doing lately. Christ.

“Sorry, I’m uh.” He licks his lips, tongue sweeping over the chapped skin. “Still… adjusting to being in Robotics again.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, quieter, still tense. “I’m adjusting to you being in Robotics again too.” There’s a thoughtful set to his face, all in the way his eyebrows come together, his lips pursing just slightly. He’s thinking. He’s thinking about _this_ , and Rhys worries.

Before he can say anything further or try to waylay whatever’s percolating in Jack’s mind, the elevator dings and opens to 17. Holding his breath, Rhys steps out, turning to look back at Jack. He should say something like _have a nice day_ , but it feels so… impersonal.

Jack is watching him, looking like he’s having the same trouble.

The moment lasts too long, and the door shuts in Rhys’ face.

Great. Just… great. Rhys shakes his head, trying to jar loose the disquieted feeling that’s hanging around like cobwebs in the corners of his mind.

He doesn’t know how his life got _harder_ since he went back to this job, but it has. What a goddamn mess.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

Hyperion’s Robotics division was a tight-knit group from the very beginning, as far as Rhys had heard. Really, the entire corporation had been built by a handful of very talented people who’d worked out of each other’s pockets, and that mentality had been inherited by the corporation at large.

There were upsides to that. It made all those team-building exercises from Rhys’ collegiate years feel worthwhile, and he quickly learned that people at Hyperion were more than happy to help him with anything he needed… so long as he was ready to return the favor later. It was a little ruthless and very competitive, but in a way Rhys understood and sort of enjoyed.

On the flipside, there was the hazing.

Or, that was unfair. It wasn’t quite _hazing_ , but there was a way things _worked_ at Hyperion, unwritten rules that dictated the order of things. There were rituals that had to be followed, and ignoring them would be akin to breaking a mirror or walking under a ladder. No one was willing to risk endangering Hyperion’s good fortune and power.

One of the things that had to be done, Rhys discovered, was that everyone in Robotics had to face Handsome Jack.

It was done on rotation, but once the order was set, it was law. When the time came to hand the Lead Project Director and Head Engineer the week’s report on what Robotics had done, a different person was in charge of taking the paperwork, getting into the elevator, and riding up to the management floors to hand it over to Handsome Jack in person.

Rhys had no idea why it was necessary, why a simple email wouldn’t suffice, but that was just the way of things at Hyperion.

There were enough people on the Robotics team that Rhys went months without the task falling to him, but eventually his luck ran out and the sentence was handed down by his supervisor. A stack of paperwork in a blue folder appeared on his desk, waiting for him on his keyboard when he arrived. A sticky note on top read succinctly: _Your turn. 11AM, floor 35. Be there early. Wait until you’re called in._

Fifteen minutes early seemed like a good idea, and Rhys headed for the elevator accordingly, reaching up to loosen his tie on the ride up. He knew it was in his head, but it felt tighter than usual.

It was fine. Handsome Jack was the man in charge of directing the course of pretty much every project Hyperion undertook, allocating resources and setting up teams and firing employees who weren’t contributing enough. He had one hell of a reputation, and everyone had a story about his temper.

Everyone but Rhys. Rhys just hoped this wasn’t the day he was going to be the star in another tall tale about Jack.

Handsome Jack’s office had a waiting room. There, the PA told him that Jack was in a meeting with Tassiter and would return soon. Until then, he had to wait.

The only thing was, Rhys wasn’t waiting alone.

A girl was sitting in one of the chairs, small enough she looked even smaller between the cushy armrests. She was young, maybe not even a teenager, and she was crying. It was silent, her freckled cheeks splotchy red and damp, but the only noise she made was her loud, deep breaths, like she was desperately trying to keep quiet.

Rhys glanced back at the PA, who pointedly _didn’t_ return his gaze.

Okay. If part of working at Hyperion was ignoring crying children… that was a little too much for Rhys to bear.

Setting his folder down on the coffee table, Rhys knelt down on one knee, close to eye-level with the girl. She kept her eyes on her knees, lips white as they pressed together.

He could have said something, but she looked so miserable, he didn’t want to force her to speak. Instead, he patted down his pockets until he found—technically it was a handkerchief, a bit smudged with the lubricant he used on his arm’s joints. It wasn’t too messy, though, and Rhys folded it and held it out, open palmed.

The girl had almost preternaturally blue eyes, and they settled on Rhys’ hand, then followed his arm up, settling timidly on his face, gaze darting away and back a few times. Slowly, she took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes with it, then wiped her cheeks. A little hiccup snuck out, and Rhys smiled.

“This is a stupid question, I know, but,” he started, ducking his head to catch her eyes again. “You okay?”

She shook her head slowly, wiping away another tear. “Dad’s busy, and M—Mr. Tassiter won’t let Meg call him w—when he’s in a meeting.”

That didn’t shock Rhys; the only thing more prevalent around Hyperion than tales of Handsome Jack’s exploits was tales of what a fucking _dick_ Tassiter was. Apparently the President had always favored the Chicago offices over the Austin offices and took it as a personal insult when company resources started being focused down south. Luckily, Tassiter was only in town a few days out of the year, but they were pretty _awful_ days for everyone.

Tassiter literally made a little girl cry. Rhys wished he was surprised.

He sank down slowly, off his knee to sit on the floor. It drew the girl’s attention, her red-lined eyes open wide. Rhys smiled and said, “I’m Rhys. I’m waiting on your dad too. Mind if I wait with you?”

It took a long moment, but she shook her head. Then, in a soft voice, she said, “I’m Angel. Pleasure to meet you.”

Oh, _cute._ Rhys’ smile grew. “Likewise, Angel.”

It looked like it took great effort, but Angel smiled back at him. She was missing a tooth, right in the front, and Rhys was pretty sure it was the most adorable thing he’d seen in a long time.

She pointed to his arm. “Um, what’s that?”

Even though he knew what she meant, he made a show of following her finger. “That’s my arm.”

“I—I can see that,” she replied, a little tartly, then instantly looked contrite. “I mean, it’s metal.”

“Yep,” Rhys said, lifting his arm and patting its casing, working the fingers from his forearm. This model had three prongs, two that functioned as his fingers and one as a thumb. With every button on his arm’s casing, the fingers shifted position: flat open hand, fist, pointing, wide grasp, narrow grasp. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Angel watched for a moment, leaning in to see how the mechanisms worked, sniffling but curious. She started to reach out, then stilled, looking up at Rhys’ face.

He nodded and moved so she could reach out and press the buttons, commanding his fingers into various poses. “Wow.” She hit the button that bent him into a fingergun pose, and giggled. “You should get a—a foamy dart thing for this one.”

Lifting his hand close, he made a considering noise. “Huh, like a nerf gun? Just go pow-pow when someone annoys me?” he asked. She nodded excitedly, laughing. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll mention it to Robotics.”

Angel gasped. “You work with robots?”

“Mmhm.”

“Dad says I can see the robots when they’re ready. When are they going to be ready?”

Rhys winced sympathetically. “Another few months before we’re done building one of them. Right now it’s all in the computers, we build them in special programs to see how they’d move.”

She perked up. “Like in Maya?”

He blinked, and nodded. “Not that one specifically, but drafting and rendering software like it, yeah.”

Angel unfolded from her small curl in the chair, letting her legs hang down and leaning forward on her knees. “I do that stuff. I’m n—not good at art, but Dad taught me to make models on the computer. It’s easier than,” her nose wrinkled. “Painting and things, but my teachers think Dad should put me in a real art class.”

That… was impressive, honestly. Most of the software was new on the market, even for enterprises, and even Rhys had to learn some of it when he joined Hyperion. “Well, I think that’s awesome. Your teachers need to get with the times.”

Angel bobbed her head in a nod. “Dad says that. And I make flowers and stuff sometimes—that’s better than painting things.”

“ _Very_ awesome,” Rhys said, and took a chance, holding up his metal hand, setting the fingers back into an open palm configuration. To his relief, Angel instantly caught on and gave him a high five, laughing and tucking her arms around herself after.

It was then that the door opened, so suddenly they both jumped, Angel gasping softly. Bending awkwardly to look behind him, Rhys saw Handsome Jack standing in the doorway, staring right at them.

“Uh,” Rhys said.

“Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad,” Angel said, climbing off the chair and stepping over Rhys, one hand braced on his shoulder, and moving to her father. “Dad, can I see the robot models on the computer?”

“I… wait, hang on,” Handsome Jack started, looking between Angel and Rhys, his eyes hard. He bent down, cupping Angel’s face and rubbing his thumb against the still-splotchy apples of her cheeks. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing! I—I was crying before, but then Rhys gave me a napkin and told me about the robots,” Angel informed him petulantly.

“That’s a handkerchief,” Jack said, taking it from her clenched hand. Straightening, he kept one hand on Angel’s shoulder and stared down at Rhys.

He… had no idea what he was supposed to do here, just how much trouble he could be in, but Rhys stood gingerly, dusting off his pants. “I, uh, I just kept her company since she was waiting on you. Sir. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Hn.” Jack narrowed his eyes at Rhys. “You’re the latest sacrificial lamb from…”

“Robotics, sir, yes.” He snapped up the report he was meant to drop off, holding it up. “I have the, uh.”

“Right.” Looking down, Jack’s face softened just a little. “Head inside, baby, I’ll be right there.”

Angel nodded. “’Kay. Nice meeting you, Rhys,” she chirped, waving briskly before heading into the office.

As soon as she was out of sight, Rhys felt something like fear in his spine. Handsome Jack was still looking at him, so steady that Rhys felt compelled to hold his gaze. He didn’t even blink, worried that would be a sign of weakness, something.

“Huh,” Jack said at last, and held out Rhys’ handkerchief. “I’ll call you in, just wait here.” Then, he followed Angel, leaving as suddenly as he came.

Grateful, Rhys sat heavily in the chair, a hand against his chest, left with the uncanny feeling he’d just had a close brush with death.

At least, he reasoned, he’d met Angel. She seemed like a sweet kid. Shame about her terrifying father.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: injuries, portrayal of medical procedure. (purposefully kept vague enough to avoid triggers, but still work mentioning)

When Angel arrives at the location Gaige texted her, she immediately feels overdressed.

To be fair, she doesn’t think that’s her fault. She has no idea what a roller derby match entails, and it isn’t like she’s gone to many sporting events. Dad never cared enough to follow any teams, nor did Rhys. Uncle Tim got Olympics fervor every other year, while Nisha apparently enjoyed the act of watching sports from home with no interest in going to actual games.

So, Angel tries to be clever with a cute skater dress and heels. It seems like the thing to do. But everyone else is in tees and jeans, cut-offs with the fringe, just _comfortable_ stuff. Before she even gets out of the car (Uncle Tim’s, because it was too early in the day to borrow Dad’s, and she didn’t want to explain to him besides), she takes out her dangly earrings and shoves them into the glove box before checking her reflection.

She looks nice. Hopefully that’s okay?

She really needs to relax. She’s being silly.

Firing off a text to Gaige, Angel climbs out of the car and heads up to the Wrecking Ballroom. It’s a new building, shiny and bright with a futuristic feel to it, its roof covered almost entirely with solar panels. There are plenty of people milling around outside, some just chatting, some playing patronage to the food trucks. Angel wraps her arms around herself and sidles through the crowd, waiting.

She sees a hand waving, stretched up above the rest of the people, which is only significant because the hand is metal. It’s as good a beacon as any. Angel hurries over, relieved, and finds Gaige. She’s out of her work clothes this time, wearing poppy red jeans and a _JAKOBS SIRENS_ shirt with a rip across the neckline that seems too perfect to be normal wear and tear.

“ _There_ you are—whoa.” Gaige whistles, putting up her hands and making a frame with her thumbs and index fingers. “Pretty as a picture, huh. Those shoes are gonna be murder since I got us standing room near the barrier. Figured you’d want to be close to the action.”

Angel nods quickly, pressing her hands to her skirt to smooth it down. “Sounds good, yeah. I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I can’t promise I’ll _understand_ the action, though.”

Gaige rolls her shoulders. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll talk you through it, it’s real easy. Well, fundamentals are, then you have like pack dynamics, which sounds like trashy werewolf romance stuff, but is _way_ cooler.”

Not for the first time, Angel nods along.

“Anyway, this match is one of the local teams _aaaand_ ,” Gaige steps back and puffs up her chest, gesturing excitedly at her shirt. “The Jakobs team! I know, I know, I’m a bad girl for liking the sponsor league.”

She gets the feeling this is going to be a night full of questions. At least Gaige is fun to listen to. Fidgeting with her hair, Angel asks, “There’s a sponsor league? As opposed to…?”

Gaige nods, her ponytails bouncing, and takes Angel by the elbow. “Walk with me, Angel, and learn the tale of Austin derby.”

 

The way Gaige lays it out is like this:

Once upon a time, there were only two leagues. One was the amateur or independent league, made of small teams hodgepodged together into a competitive group. Pretty casual but pretty chronically underfunded.

On the other side was the pro league. The stakes were higher, with set teams and trading players and some _vicious_ rivalries. Sponsorships allowed for better equipment, better tracks to play on, and a lot of under-the-table shady dealings that led to some dramatics. All of which was expected from that sort of thing.

But then, the corporate sponsors got into the game and started to sour the entire league. When the pro league nearly fell apart due to the intervention of their sponsors, a new league was born to save the pro league.

That was the sponsor league. Big corporations that wanted their own teams could just buy or build their own, and play against each other in their own tier.

“Atlas started it,” Gaige says as she hands Angel her ticket and leads her into the arena. “The Crimson Crash was a great team too, or so I hear. But they fought a lot with DAHL and the two tried to just buy their way to victory, ya know? Buying freelancers to pitch play, better skates, even trying to bribe their players to just be more ruthless. It all got nasty.”

“So they broke off into their own thing?” Angel prompts.

“It was that or get banned from the pro league, and by then it was something they were invested in, and you know how these mega-corps _have_ to have their pissing contests—uh.” She winces, letting out a nervous laugh. “No offense, I mean—“

Oh right, her father. Hyperion. Angel shrugs. “So the sponsor league was born.”

“Yep! Once Atlas and DAHL started, everyone wanted a piece. Vladof, Maliwan, Jakobs were the first people in. I hear Hyperion was interested but the old president made it a _thing_ to not do anything nice for the Austin HQ.”

Angel smiles, bitter and annoyed at the thought. “Tassiter was not a very nice man,” she agrees. “He resented the Austin office for being more successful than the others.”

Grinning, Gaige asks, “Oh, is that why no one can mention that guy without a look like they smelled something bad? Well, glad he’s not around anymore.” She reaches over and draws Angel’s arm in through hers. “We’re in the standing area, come on.”

Inside the building is an entry foyer, including a mounted trophy case filled with elaborate, tall trophies, arranged to center around the biggest and shiniest ones. Each section is color coded with the team’s colors, same as their owner’s colors. The biggest is Jakobs’, the wooden framing inlayed with gold filigree and pearl, just as on the border of tastelessness as Jakobs always is. There’s also Torgue’s checkered yellow and black, Tediore’s surprisingly elegant navy with pinstripes, Maliwan’s kaleidoscope of colors, and Vladof’s… uniquely Russian flair with bold stripes and rich reds.

The lights in the DAHL and Atlas cases are out, the shelves empty. They’re only recognizable by the colors left on the backdrop, green camo contrasting starkly with orange, red, and grey.

Gaige is right; there’s no sign of Hyperion’s colors. That strikes Angel as strange; it’s not like her father to ignore some pointless yet brutal competition like this. If there are trophies involved, Dad wants them. All of them.

Past the entryway is the arena itself. From the doors, it looks like just a flat room with bench seating and a ring of metal guardrails. As they draw closer, though, Angel can see that the middle of the room is set into the floor, a deep bowl dropped. There is the track, glossy wood laid at an angle around a flat middle ring.

They’re tickets get them right up close, leaning on the guardrails and looking down at the track. Gaige beams and taps her metal hand against the railing. “Banked track derby’s way better than flat track.” She points. “That just means the track’s tilted. You gotta go faster and you get more speed.”

“Right,” Angel says, nodding, shuffling closer to the railing as more people pile in. Someone gets too close, and to Angel’s surprise, Gaige elbows them with her metal arm, shooting them a peeved look.

“Animals,” Gaige says, keeping her arm curved around Angel. It’s protective, and Angel takes a breath, relaxing. “You okay?”

“Yes. Thanks.” She crosses her arms, leaning on the railing. “So, Jakobs, huh?”

“Yeah, and the Desert Dashers. Jammer on Double-D is Mad Maxine, she’s pretty great. Nothing next to Maya though.”

“Jammer?” Angel asks.

Gaige shakes her head. “Wait until the match starts.”

Around them, as everyone takes their seats, the ambient noise begins to grow. Angel leans over, glad for her heels since they let her get close to Gaige’s ear. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to ask later.”

“Hm. Good point…” Gaige looks around for a moment, biting her lip. “Ah, got it.” Then, she squats down, hands gripping the railing as she slides down. There’s a two-foot wide gap between their platform and the barrier at the top of track, enough room for her to let her legs hang down. Once situated, she waves Angel down. “Don’t worry, I’ll beat up anyone who tries to step on you.”

Angel believes her, absolutely, and so follows her down, tucking her skirt under her before mimicking Gaige, legs dangling into the gap. Already, it’s a little quieter, and just more private. Gaige grins at her, her tongue pink between her teeth, and before Angel can do anything silly, music starts to play and Gaige turns her attention to the track, whistling loudly.

Here, the announcer’s voice is a distant mess of vowels without consonants, and Angel strains to hear the PA system as each team is announced. Catching the confused look on her face, Gaige scoots closer and tucks their faces together. Her arm circles Angel’s shoulders, holding onto the railing on Angel’s other side for balance.

Angel swallows, fluttering nervousness in her chest as she tries to focus on Gaige’s voice.

“Desert Dashers, there they are. That one, see? With the red star on her helmet?”

There’s a crowd of women coming onto the track. Some enter from the stairs under the inner ring, but others half-toss themselves in from the railing, taking the track at speed and racing laps around the bowl. It takes a moment to spot the one Gaige means, the fastest one. The Dashers have uniforms, vaguely military with the flat tan canvas color scheme. The red star stands out against it all.

“Red star is jammer. The striped helmet’s the pivot.”

Jammer. Pivot. Angel nods.

“Everyone else is a blocker,” Gaige says, and Angel remembers her saying she was a blocker herself.

“Like you?”

“Yep! Oh, oh oh!” She taps her palm against the railing. “Oh, the Sirens! Here they come!”

As the Dashers settle in the center ring, another team enters the track. This time, all of them climb the railing, leaning down into the bowl in sync, one arm stretched behind them to hold on as they all get into position. The pivot, striped helmet, is Booticca, Angel realizes, putting the pieces together. She bodychecked Gaige. That’s… pretty impressive, Angel thinks; the woman looks intimidating, with blue war paint under her eyes that clashes vividly with her red hair, but she’s spritely where Gaige is solid.

The pivot shouts something indistinct, and the whole team lets go, down into the bowl, skating full tilt in a lap around the ring. One breaks free, taking the banked curves high and firing down the track faster than her teammates, her body crouched low.

Gaige taps Angel’s arm. “She’s not wearing her star yet, but that’s A-Maya-lation, the Jakobs jammer. Or, I think she’s Cleobasha now? Theme naming is a big thing in derby.”

“You need to tell me how this works,” Angel says, leaning in to Gaige’s ear again.

“Right, right. Okay, so.” She points to the jammer. “The jammers are the people who score points in every jam. Or round, they’re—they’re rounds, basically. Anyway. At the start of a jam, there’s a whistle, sets everyone off their marks. The blockers try to form a pack to make it harder for the jammers to get through. Jammers have to _catch up_ to the pack, lap it, and _then_ on their second lap they score a point for every opposing blocker they pass.”

Angel thinks about that, and counts the teams. “So… four points?”

“Five. Jammer counts. Then, the jammer puts her hands on her hips to end the jam. That way the other jammer doesn’t catch up. Either way, jams end in two minutes.”

Nodding along, Angel says, “I think I get it. Or, I hope so.”

“If not, don’t worry. You can still enjoy the babes in fishnets.” With that, her attention turns back to the track, cheering brightly.

Leaning on the railing, Angel settles in to watch.

Even with Gaige’s explanation, it’s mostly a spectacle. The teams line up, and at whistle-blow launch down the track as a two minute timer starts counting down. She watches Mad Maxine and Cleobasha taking their turns so wide, they nearly touch the top barrier of the rink before carrying the momentum down. They’re fast, so fast that Angel finds she’s holding her breath watching them, worried they’ll crash or peel out, _something_.

Cleobasha drops low, folding herself down as she comes in to score, and Booticca shouts something. All at once, the blockers start to push, trying to get in and out of Cleobasha’s way. She’s small, and fast, and Booticca guides her through, giving her a shove forward when she starts to slow down.

Unfolding, she skates ahead while Maxine’s still navigating the pack, and her hands settle on her hips.

“And _that’s_ how you do it!” Gaige crows, bouncing in place. “Holy crap, I love the Sirens.”

It’s easy to see why. The basics start to become obvious as Angel watches: Jammer laps, then scores. Blockers try to stop opposing jammer and help their jammer. There are more complicated moments, when there are penalty whistles. Gaige leans over again for those with short… mostly unhelpful explanations: “Blocker out of the engagement zone.” “Lead jammer can’t pass the star.” “I have no idea, man, that play looked fine.”

What Angel learns without being told is that the game is split into two halves, each 30 minutes long. The entire event is over too soon, with the Sirens beating the Dashers by ten points. The women glide past each other on their skates, shaking hands, looking tired but satisfied.

“They’re not actually competitors,” Gaige points out. “This is just a fun match between seasons to get the hype going for everything starting up again…. _next_ month? I think it’s next month.” She gestures at the teams. “But Dashers are pro, Sirens are sponsor. They only have meet ups like this in off season, so they’re all friendly and stuff.”

“People aren’t a good sport about the… the sport?”

“Pro league, indie league, yeah. Sponsor league?” Gaige lets out a low whistle. “Last season was _awful_ when it got down to Maliwan and Torgue. Queen Mox herself runs the Maliwan Tempest and there’s nothing scarier than having her on the floor during a big match.”

People start to move, leaving the platform and the stands. Some hang around, talking or drinking. A few fans lean over the railings, passing down pens and t-shirts to be signed. For the first time, Angel sees Booticca smile, taking off her helmet and throwing herself up the banked ramp to hang onto the railing, grinning for selfies.

Gaige sighs dreamily. “I wonder if Lily would punch me if I asked nicely.”

“Lily? And, is… would that be a good thing?” Angel asks, snickering into her elbow.

“Oh, god. Booticca is Lilith when she’s out of her kit. And you have clearly never been punched by a beautiful woman who can bench press you. Which, you know. The night is young and this _is_ Austin. We can head to Sixth Street and make that happen.”

As… oddly compelling as that sounds, Angel knows her fake ID is back in her room at the villa, and there were few places on Sixth that would allow a 20 year old in. “That sounds interesting but, uh, I have to give my uncle back his car or he’ll start blowing up my phone.”

Gaige quirks and eyebrow. “Literally, or?”

Angel snorts. “No, that’s my dad you’re thinking of. Uncle Tim didn’t inherit the weird techno-love everyone else did.”

“Shame. C’mon.” She stands, hauling herself to her feet before helping Angel up, clasping both their hands together. For a moment, Angel worries about putting weight on the prosthetic, but Gaige doesn’t bat an eyelash. It’s sturdy, and somehow mounted to her body securely. “There is a very thin window from when everyone goes to be social and hook up after a match to when the parking lot’s going to be _flooded_. You should bail out now.”

She should. She wasn’t kidding about having to get back home, and even with the later summer sundown, the sky’s darkening.

Gaige keeps a loose hold of her wrist, and Angel is grateful. The way Gaige moves is incredible, the way she demands space with just the set of her shoulders and her stride. It honestly reminds Angel of her dad, which is a weird thought to have when almost holding hands with a girl, but.

“You know,” Gaige says conversationally as they break out of the worse of the crowd, heading to the parking lot, “they say that Hyperion’s finally going to buy the Bullet Girls.”

“I feel like I’ve said this a lot tonight, but,” Angel says, “explain.”

“Less than you’d think! You’re a great listener, gold star for you. But no, seriously, Hyperion’s wanted in on the sponsor league for over a year now, but they want to buy this one team, the Hollow Point Bullet Babes. _Great_ indie circuit team."

“And they… said no?” It doesn’t sound like her dad, to take no for an answer.

“Well, they were owned by their coach, right? Old guy named Felix, really nice dude. But he’s passed away, and that apparently _changes_ things.” Gaige tosses a grin at Angel. “I’m not saying it’s a done deal, but Hyperion’s hounded that team for ages, and now they might need to be bought to survive. I am _so_ gonna try out for blocker.”

Angel smiles softly. “I’ll definitely come to your matches.”

“What, why not try out?” Gaige spins around, walking backwards to stare at Angel imploringly. “It’s _so_ fun, way more fun than just _watching_. You can skate, right?”

Startled, Angel laughs, a little too loud. “Oh, yeah, of course!”

 

* * *

 

 

Angel wasn’t lying. She knows how to skate. She took six months of lessons when she was younger.

It was ice skating, though, and Angel’s not sure that’s the same thing.

She heads home after Gaige walks her to the car, promising to see Gaige later at Hyperion HQ. It’s getting truly late, the sun just a suggestion of light on the horizon, the sky bleeding orange to purple to deep blue-black above.

The Lawrence family lives out in a carefully maintained, gated community called Costa Bella out by Lake Travis. They call it the villa even though the house apparently has some proper name. It was printed on the gate back when they first moved in, but Angel distinctly remembers her father going out with his toolbox one morning and coming back ten minutes later with all the ornate letters under his arm. From then on, it was _the villa_.

It’s a sprawling set of buildings, all ground floor, but wide, set into a curve at the end of the driveway. They’re vaguely Grecian with ornate columns and an open, airy floorplan with plenty of patio space and huge windows that open out. It’s built of smooth stone, a cream facade with rich browns and reds.

The main building, the largest one in the center, is where Angel and her father live. When she was in Austin, Nisha would stay with them, and Rhys used to…

The guest room sits empty these days.

One of the smaller buildings had somehow turned into Uncle Tim’s home. He’d followed them down from Chicago back when they’d moved, taking care of Angel before Rhys. With the way her uncle and father butt heads, she’s forever surprised that he stuck around.

She’s glad, though.

Uncle Tim’s already sitting outside on the bench swing when she walks up. There’s a beer bottle in one of his hands and a somewhat torn up paperback in the other. His glasses sit low on his nose as he reads, squinting at the page.

Angel, because she is a good niece, leans into her uncle’s doorway and flips on the porch light.

Uncle Tim startles, choking on his drink for a second before spotting her. “Will you make a _noise_ next time, geez.”

She holds out his keys. “Thank you, Uncle Tim. I filled it up on the way home.”

He lifts his eyebrows and takes the keys from her, dropping them on his side table next to his beer. “How was the, uh…”

“Roller derby. It was fun. A _lot_ of fun, actually.” She leans her shoulder on one of the columns, her fingers knit together. “Hey, speaking of, do you know… how to skate?”

“Ha, uh, no.” He laughs self-deprecatingly as he swings a little more, his toes on the ground propelling him. “Never had the coordination for that kind of thing. But…” He tips his head back, thinking about it. “I mean, there’s a _lot_ of junk in the garage. We might have skates.”

Angel smiles, twisting her waist so her skirt swishes a little, aware she looks cute that way. “Do you know where, Uncle Tim?”

Her uncle looks at her and sighs, loud and exasperated. “You want me to look, don’t you?”

“Please? Pretty please?” She clasps her hands in front of her. “You’re my favorite uncle?”

“See, that’s cute because I’m your only— _fine_ , okay.” With an exaggerated groan, he gets up, stretching. “Digging through the garage for a box I _might’ve_ seen in there is definitely how I planned to spend my evening.”

“Glad to help!” She bounds forward, tugging him down with a hand on his shoulder until she can kiss his cheek. “I’m going to go change, be back for the skates!”

“Oh, _that’s_ how it is, huh?” he calls after her, but she’s too busy making her way to the main house.

Besides, she’s in a _nice_ dress, and if she’s going to be as awful at this as she suspects, she needs to dress accordingly.

 

* * *

 

 

The driveway in front of the house is a wide circles, with room to park on the outer edge. Most of the time, there’s just two cars, Uncle Tim’s and Dad’s, but it’s late and her father still hasn’t come back from work. Point being, there’s plenty of room for her to practice.

At the start, it’s just flat out embarrassing. It’s not the skates fault, they’re fine. Her uncle somehow unearths an old pair of quad wheels from deep within the garage. They fit, just barely, but certainly well enough for now. They’re a bit tight, but Angel knows she can buy a new pair later.

With the patience of a saint, Uncle Tim holds her hands after she tries them on, coasting her around the patio carefully. “Okay, no, hang on,” he says after a moment, nudging her safely into one of the columns before retreating into his house.

He comes back and straps a motorcycle helmet on her head before they go back to simple loops back and forth. It doesn’t take too long for Angel to get the courage to move her feet, pressing the rubber stop on the toe down and pushing off, propelling herself just a little bit.

“Okay, you good? I’m going to go make myself dinner, but I’m keeping my windows open. If you get hurt, just yell _really_ loud and I’ll hear it,” he tells her.

She gives him a thumbs up, her eyes trained on her feet as she carefully turns herself and pushes off to the roundabout.

It’s perfect for this. The circle is large enough that it doesn’t force her into any sharp turns, just gliding and turning, gliding more. She takes it clockwise for a while before remembering that derby is played counterclockwise. Stopping is harder than it should be, so she just rolls in a tight loop, going the other way with a little more speed.

Recalling the way the jammer had crouched down low, Angel tries, and ends up pinwheeling, struggling to regain her balance.

She would have corrected just fine, but that’s when her father’s car pulls in. Angel looks up to see where the light’s coming from, and for her trouble forgets to hold her turn and plows directly into the boxwoods.

Luckily, the shrubs are well-kept and almost springy, holding her up and keeping her from falling on her face. The matter of getting her feet under her is something else entirely.

Behind her, she hears the car door slam and the sound of running before her father’s there. “Christ, are you okay? What are you doing out here, are you wearing _skates_?”

There’s the frayed edge to his voice, and Angel takes a slow breath. “Don’t freak out. I’m fine, just help me up?”

He’s rarely sure of anything when it comes to her, but his hands are. They grasp her and lift, taking her right out of the bushes. She checks her hands first, making sure she hasn’t broken skin, before Dad takes them in his hands, turning them over and frowning. “Nothing? I don’t see—”

“I’m fine. No cuts, and I took my medicine today besides.”

Despite that, she lets him have a moment to examine her, his hands brushing a few errant leaves off her shoulder. The bright look in his eyes is settling, and his grip softens slowly. “Alright. Good.” Then, his eyes flick up to hers, frown deepening. “Why are you out at night in skates? Is this a new thing?”

She huffs out a sigh. “No, Dad, I was just… seeing if I knew how.”

“What, did you wake up today and decide skinned knees sound like a _great_ idea?”

“ _Dad_ ,” she sighs. “I’ll pick up kneepads tomorrow.”

“And a helmet. Not just your uncle’s secondhand biker helmet.” His knuckles tap against the top. “Don’t court that contact high, christ.”

“Kneepads and helmet,” Angel parrots back, nodding.

Her father nods back, looking… concerned, maybe. “Do you need… lessons? Or, I dunno, bandaids? I could tell Rhy— I could set something up if you needed.”

He’s still holding one of her hands. He has very large hands, dwarfing hers, and calloused along the fingers and edge of his palm. She rubs the pad of her thumb over one of those ridges, squeezing lightly. “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”

He bobs his head once, squeezing back almost instinctively. “Right. I’m going to… actually park this, then head in. Don’t stay out, for god’s sake, I could’ve hit you.” Like he just remembered, he leans in to look into her eyes again. “Did you eat? Do I need to make dinner or something?”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Did you?”

Dad snorts, finally letting go and stepping back. “I run on a mix of caffeine pills, hot mocha, and the lamentations of my enemies, baby.”

Rolling her eyes, Angel kicks off, gliding past him. “I’ll heat something up.”

This is what they’re supposed to do now. They’re supposed to take care of each other. She can tell her father’s trying, in his own weird way.

It still stings, though.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

There wasn’t anything quite like the weekends when Nisha was in town.

Technically, Nisha was Angel’s stepmother, but not once had anyone asked Angel to call her that. Which was a relief, because it wasn’t even _close_ to fitting the woman her father married after becoming president of Hyperion.

Nisha was the sort of person Angel wanted to be someday. She was the _fixer_ for Hyperion, traveling around the country to the company’s various locations to make sure things were running smoothly. She wore cowboy boots with actual spurs on and purple lipstick that never seemed to smudge. She laughed like a whip crack and talked back to Angel’s father so sharply, it shocked Angel every time.

She wasn’t Angel’s mom, but that was fine.

This weekend, early in the summer, the entire family piled onto the— well, Nisha and Rhys both called it a _boat_ just to wind Dad up. Uncle Tim said it was a _yacht_ but everyone else made a face at the term. Dad snapped that, “It’s a ship, goddammit!”

“Language,” Rhys had told him, his own chiding right back at him, making everyone laugh.

Regardless, it got them on the lake. It was morning, but already bright and sunny. Angel sat under the canopy, not ready to put on sunblock yet. Rhys sat nearby, a wide-brimmed hat on his head and a light flannel covering his chest and arms. He apparently burned very easily.

There was a grill that Dad was trying to work, grumbling constantly to himself. Nisha, in a swim top and jeans shorts and painted toenails, stalked around the boat, looking perfectly at home in the sun in a way no one else in the family did.

Uncle Tim was steering and fending off Nisha’s attention. She touched his shoulder with her fingernails. “Look at _those_. Why doesn’t my husband have those freckles? I’m feeling cheated.”

Uncle Tim turned bright red. “Uh, he would if he went out more, I think?”

“Hey!” Dad looked over his shoulder. “I’m plenty handsome without, okay? Leave Tim alone or he’s going to beach us.”

“I’m _not_ going to beach us, relax. Water’s just a bit choppy.”

Angel looked at her reflection in the metal poles that held up the canopy. Even in the warped funhouse reflection, she could see her own freckles, pale against her cheeks. Nisha liked freckles, but they only came out with sunlight.

“I’m going in the sun,” she told Rhys.

Rhys grimaced and tried to turn in his seat, putting as much of the lake to his back as possible. “God, _why_?” It didn’t seem to be a real question though, or even aimed at her. More aimed at everything around him that conspired to get him on a boat. So, her father mostly.

Nisha made it look easy, walking around with her sandals with the heels. She never stopped to brace herself or teetered, just prowled around, sometimes stopping to drape herself across Dad’s back. There weren’t a lot of women in Angel’s life, but Nisha seemed worth imitating. If Angel could walk like Nisha, she felt like she could have anything she wanted.

That fantasy lasted for about five minutes. Then, the waves caught the boat at an angle, and Angel yelped, her ankle twisting under her. She flung an arm out to catch something, anything to keep upright.

Something caught, but against her skin, and she just knew it _hurt_ , a long line along the back of her arm.

The next thing she knew, Nisha was snapping, “ _Relax_ ,” at her dad, and Rhys was helping Angel sit up, supporting her arm carefully. “Rhys,” Nisha said, “Where’s the kit?”

Rhys pointed. “Under that, bring the whole thing.” Then, his attention was on Angel, sinking down to sit next to her. “Hey, Ange, you okay?”

She looked down. “I’m bleeding,” she pointed out, voice small.

“I can see that,” he replied, cool and easy. “But otherwise, are you okay?”

“Um. Yeah, I think so.” She glanced up as Nisha sat down, joining them. “Sorry.”

“About what, sugar? _Wow_ , that’s gorgeous,” she said, taking Angel’s arm from Rhys. “Nice and clean, good job.”

“Thanks?” Angel giggled nervously, unsure what she’d done worthy of praise besides being clumsy.

“You want to mix up the stuff?” Nisha asked Rhys, handing the first aid kit over.

He nodded. “It’ll be my first time, but I remember the instructions pretty well.”

“If you need, I’ve done it before.”

Over their shoulders, Angel watched as her Dad spoke to her uncle, fists clenched and face _angry_. He was talking, too softly for her to understand, but she could hear the _shake_ in his tone. It wasn’t until then that she tried to pull her arm away, starting to feel anxious.

Rhys’ lips pressed into a white line, and he turned to look at her father. “Jack, _sit down_ , it’s fine.” His voice was hard, commanding in a way she’d never heard before. “Give us ten minutes, it’ll be fine.”

“I can get a helicopter—”

“Not necessary,” Nisha said, not looking up from cleaning the cut.

Watching them both work settled Angel. Nisha was humming to herself as she tidied Angel up, and Rhys’ hands moved smoothly. He braced the vials with his metal hand, fingers gripping comfortably as he mixed the solution into the powder. Neither of them seemed worried.

“Timothy, honey, please make sure the boat’s somewhat steady,” Nisha called, watching Rhys work. “You want me to do the injection?”

“Yeah, might be a good idea. Wanna ready the needle?”

Angel sat as still as she could, only moving when Nisha directed her. A rubber cord was tied around her arm, and Nisha pressed the little needle into a vein, still humming to herself. Between her and Rhys, they fed a dose of humate P into her arm in moments, and Angel felt even more calm.

Her father, though.

Nisha elbowed Rhys lightly. “You want to help Jack?”

Rhys took a deep breath but nodded. “Can do. Shout if you need a nurse.” He cupped Angel’s neck, pulling her close enough to kiss her forehead. “You’re doing awesome, Angel.”

“I haven’t done anything,” she said, but Rhys was standing, throwing out the used medical supplies, and settling on the bench seat next to Dad. Her father was bent forward, a hand dug into his hair, his knee bouncing erratically. Rhys leaned in, their faces close, his hand rubbing Dad’s shaking leg as he spoke quietly.

Nisha snapped her fingers in Angel’s face. “Hey. Eyes on me, sweetie. This is the cool part.”

She took another kit from the first aid box and grinned. “I learned this… actually, that’s classified for another three years, _but_ the point is stitches are easy. I’m just gonna numb you up and sew you up, and then we’ll have hamburgers.”

“You’ve done this before?” Angel asked as Nisha got to work, snapping gloves on. Her hands moved fast, hard to even track. A needle jab near the gash made everything stop hurting, and Nisha pushed saline solution into the cut, starting to hum again. Finally, Angel realized the humming was for _her_ , and smiled.

“Yup, dozens of times. Be glad we’re not in a desert with all the sand. Pain in the ass to irrigate that shit out.”

“Language,” Dad said, voice muffled.

“Shut up,” Nisha replied in a cheerful sing-song. “Angel, I hope the _moment_ you move out, you get a mouth like a sailor, just to annoy him.”

“I’ll think about it,” she promised, leaning back against the side of the boat. Her arm balanced up on her knee for Nisha, she watched keenly as she was stitched up. There were a lot of steps to it, but Nisha never paused, never looked like she was trying to remember what to do. It went quickly, and for the first time since she learned she had Von Willebrand disease, she wasn’t afraid of the sight of her own blood.

The only sound was Nisha’s humming, and her father speaking quietly to Rhys. “Please can I call a helicopter? You said ten minutes, it’s been twelve.”

“They’re almost done,” Rhys said, his hand brushing through Dad’s hair. “We’ll keep a close eye on her and take her to the doctor tomorrow to certain, okay? It’s fine.”

“I could fix it."

“She’s fine, Jack.”

The sound of Nisha pulling off her gloves was music to Angel’s ears. “Look at _you_ ,” she said, leaning down to press her lips over top the bandage. To Angel’s delight, a perfect, if somewhat faded, purple lip mark remained. “Now, let’s try not to lose any more fights with the boat, okay?”

“Thank you, Nisha,” Angel said quietly. With her help, she sat down under the canopy again. Rhys’ hat was there, and Angel pulled it on, letting the brim fall down to block her view of her father.

He was upset. She knew why, had grown up knowing why, but it was still hard to watch.

At least Rhys was there to help him. That was good.

She was caught off guard when Dad tipped the hat off her head, out of the way, and bent to hug her. His hands shook slightly, but his lips were firm against her temple. “Okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Promise.”

“Okay.”

Nisha’s voice cut in, loud and clear. “Husband, if you’ve burnt my hamburger, I’m fitting you with cement shoes and throwing you overboard. I’ll just install TImothy in your stead and rule Hyperion through him. No one will know.”

“Uh,” Uncle Tim protested, sounding distraught, “ _I’d_ know! Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Nope,” Nisha said, winking at Angel, as warm and absolute as the summer sun.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Jack talks to his therapist about Rhys, because of course he does, he pays the lady for her discretion and advice, and Jack intends to get his money’s worth out of his sessions. At first, Ellie had considered it a little weird to discuss one of Jack’s employees in such detail, but that was literally years ago. Now, Jack tells her about the long-stare Rhys has been giving every window in his vicinity and the stilted sound of his goodbyes and that _twitch_ he does, the way he starts to move and then _stops_.

Ellie says, “Gonna be honest, he might have something like empty nest syndrome. Losing Angel and that Gortys thing all in the same time period is a lot to handle.”

That is relief. Jack can _fix_ that.

It takes a little doing, devoting time he barely has around the office to set things up. At the end of the week, Jack sends Rhys an email, asking him to get over himself and come _home_ for dinner on Saturday.  Or, he doesn’t phrase it like that, but he wants to, because the distance is suffocating sometimes, like he’s watching Rhys tighten a noose around his own neck. He doesn’t understand the why of it, never has.

He understands other things though. How to make dinner late on a weekend night with the windows open and the cicadas making a goddamn racket.

When Angel comes in to check on food, she sees three plates set out, and her eyes widen. “Is Nisha back early?”

“Nope,” Jack says as he shakes the excess marinade off the steaks, over the sink.

“Is Uncle Tim coming over?”

“Nope.”

He looks at her, just a sideways glance. The smile that blooms over her face is slow and warm. She looks happier. That’s good. She doesn’t ask anything else, just retreats back to her room, leaving Jack to dinner.

He knows when Rhys has arrived from the sound of a car on the driveway, but also from the way Angel hurries to the door, almost running to meet Rhys. Down the hall, Jack can hear them talking, no words, just the tone, the shiver of excitement in Angel’s voice obvious.

Rhys looks like he’s come from the office, in slacks and his striped shirt. As he walks in, he unbuttons his sleeve to push it up to his elbows, coming to peek at what Jack’s making. “Hello. What’s for dinner?”

“Steak and some vegetable things. Honey carrots and the mashed cauliflower Ange likes.”

Rhys nods, his eyes flicking to Jack’s briefly before he turns away, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “How’s classes? Did you nail down which ones you wanted to take?”

Angel hums brightly. “Yep. It’s not much different than before, when I was taking extra classes there in the summer. Only difference is that you’re not there to drive me.”

“I’m sure you’ll live,” Rhys murmurs. “Ask your father for a car.”

“Hey,” Jack says, turning to shoot a narrow look at Rhys. “I’m standing right here, literally ten feet away.”

He shrugs, looking completely unmoved. There’s a fearlessness in the way he meets Jack’s eyes, and Jack grins back at him, with his teeth, just to see Rhys blink. Seeing him just a little uncertain, keeping him on his toes, is good fun.

This is probably what homesickness is like, Jack thinks. He’s never really given a shit about where he lives, so long as there’s a bed, an internet connection, and work for him to do. He settled in Austin, sure, but whatever _home_ meant, it wasn’t this city or the villa, or whatever. But watching Rhys lean his chin on his hand, listening to Angel complain about one of her professors…

The feeling persists as Jack plates things and they all settle in to eat. It’s an old routine, but it’s been long enough since the last time they did it, it feels _off_. Annoyed, Jack frowns and stabs his steak with a little more force than necessary. If stabbing something _else_ would make things better, he’d do it. He’s got plenty of great, overpriced kitchen knives. It’s just a damn shame that doesn’t seem to help here.

“Don’t do that,” Rhys mutters, his Mom voice slipping on with all the ease and comfort of a sleep shirt, long in the neck to flash his warm skin and just barely bunched around his hips, fetching short across his— “Don’t stick knives in your mouth, that’s what the fork’s for.”

Jack grunts, spears another piece with his knife to bite, and smirks as Rhys sighs. Angel laughs quietly, her eyes bright in a way Jack’s missed seeing.

They’re already eating dinner late, so before long Angel starts covering her mouth, trying to hide her yawns. “Oh gosh, I have to finish something before class tomorrow. I really want to—“

“Go, take care of that.” Rhys nudges her shoulder. “It’s not like you never see me.”

Her eyes are very wide and very blue as she stares at Rhys, hard enough the smile fades from his face. She could make this worse for him. Jack sees exactly where to press, wonders if Angel’s got that mean streak in her too.

All he can do is guess, as she just slides off her stool and hugs Rhys. “It’s nice to see you… Rhys.” The hesitation is there, and none of them comment on it, letting her turn and leave.

“She misses you,” Jack points out, because it’s so _obvious_ , it’s suffocating not to make sure Rhys knows. Rhys _must_ know, right? He’s always been better with people, so Jack assumes Rhys has to know.

“Jack,” Rhys sighs, eyes half-lidded, gaze low. He doesn’t sound thrilled. Fine. He knows, but they’re still not talking about it.

“Got a project for you,” Jack says, turning to face Rhys, arms crossed over his chest. “I bought a sports team. You’re going to manage it.”

“Uh.” The amount of not-thrilled in his voice only grows. “I’m _what_? What?”

“It’s a local thing. There’s a whole league for the corporations to duke it out in. It’s great, there’s nothing to gain except bragging rights and a trophy, and I _want_ that trophy.” He gets up, taking the plates to the sink before opening up the fridge. He pulls out a beer, holding it up, shaking it with an eyebrow arched at Rhys.

Rhys frowns deeply, but nods. “Jack, I don’t know anything about sports. Hell, _you_ don’t know anything about sports.”

“I can read Wikipedia and watch primers.” There’s a church key magnet on the fridge, and Jack uses it to pop the caps off the drinks, bumping the door shut with his hip and holding a bottle out to Rhys. “And it’s a roller derby team. Even you have to admit that’s pretty awesome.”

“That’s… the skating thing?”

“There you go, you’re an expert already, pumpkin. You’ll do fine.” He takes a deep drink, smacking his lips together loudly. “Been trying to buy this one team for _years_ , but the owner just wouldn’t accept any deal I threw at him. Then he kicked the bucket and now I own a team.” He beams. It’s nice when things finally come together.

Rhys leans his bottle against his forehead, shutting his eyes. “Jack, that… The guy’s death was… purely incidental, right?”

Jack snorts, waving a hand. “Yeah, yeah, no foul play. I didn’t want the team _that_ badly, babe, relax. But on the guy’s death, right, will gets read and all, and turns out he posthumously _agreed_ to our terms. Something about the team being the labor of his life, and ensuring it survives, blah blah.”

“I suppose that’s somewhat better than the alternative of you jumping on the team the moment he was dead,” Rhys says, voice dry.

“Have _some_ faith in me, come on,” Jack snaps. “But whatever. I’ve got my hands on an established team that I’m going to use to sweep the floor with the entire league, and you’ve got a job.”

With a slow head shake, Rhys takes a long drag of his beer. His throat moves with it, each swallow clear along the line of his neck. When he puts the half-finished bottle down, his lips are just barely curved upward. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Why not? I’m a nice guy and you need one.”

“You realize I’ve never worn rollerblades in my life?”

“They don’t use blades, they use four-wheel skates. And that’s—the team captains are still around, they’ll handle the actual sport stuff. That’s not what you’re there for.” Jack grimaces. He’d hoped Rhys would _get it_ , but it rarely works out that easily for them. “You don’t know sports, but you—you know people. Need ‘em. So.” He waves his bottle. “Here’s some people for you.”

Rhys’ breath hitches. “Jack,” he murmurs, but Jack doesn’t want to hear it, _can’t_ hear it. Not right now.

“Also,” Jack goes on, “I’m technically the team owner now, and my signature needs to be on all sort of shit to get them set up and squared away.” He bumps his bottle against Rhys’ arm, the condensation making Rhys shiver. “You’ve still got power of attorney, so you can do all that shit.”

A laugh startles out of Rhys, and he ducks his head, cheeks a pretty flush. “Oh. Oh, I get it now. This isn’t for me. It’s so you don’t have to do more paperwork.”

“Hey. Hey, I resent that. You’re ruining my kind, thoughtful gesture.”

“I’ll give you a thoughtful gesture,” Rhys says through his teeth. Jack can’t resist lifting his eyebrows and leaning in closer, braced on his elbows. Rhys turns his face away, hand runs through his hair as he snickers.

Before Jack can do anything else, Rhys stills, lifting his head. There’s footsteps; Jack hadn’t noticed over the sound over his desire to convince Rhys to make _good_ on that threat. But a second later, Angel peers into the kitchen, hesitating at the doorway before darting forward.

“I’m—I’m going to bed, I just wanted to,” she starts, then just puts her arms around Rhys, her head settling for just a moment on his shoulder.

Rhys stiffens, lips parting over an exhale. He manages to get his hand on her back, rubbing up and down. “Night, Angel. I’ll see you… at HQ, probably.”

She looked up from where her face is half-hidden against Rhys, meeting Jack’s eyes dolefully. He isn’t sure what she wants from him, but he nods anyway; when it comes to Rhys, he figures their interests are aligned, at least. More than once, they’d worked in tandem to keep Rhys there; Jack would have him over for dinner, then Angel would insist on his help with something, then Jack would have dessert ready, and if they could keep Rhys there, where he _belonged_ , that was good.

It always helped that Rhys seemed eager to be convinced.

She lets go, and hovers for a moment, eyes flicking between them both. Oh. Right. Jack sits up, tries to pretend he wasn’t—he was leaning right into Rhys, wasn’t he, he’s not supposed to do that. “Night, Ange.”

Nodding, she looks like she wants to do something else, something tense in her shoulders. Whatever it is, it apparently can’t claw its way out of her, and she shuffles off again with just a little wave.

As soon as she’s gone, Rhys’ head hangs forward, expression shuttered, and Jack’s fingers fucking _itch_ looking at him. He could say something, but the words never seem to work out for him. When he was being Handsome Jack, things were easier. Things fell the way he wanted them through sheer force of will and the power of his voice. The idea of exerting that over Rhys, who already looks tired, like an icy tree bending under its own weight, is sour in Jack’s mouth.

So he just takes another sip of his drink and says nothing about it. Better to just _deal_ with the sharp, angry thing behind his ribs than set it loose on Rhys.

After a moment, Rhys glances over at him, like he’s waiting. Jack doesn’t know for what. Eventually, Rhys’ lips tip up, a ghost of a smile, and he sags onto his arms again.

The quiet that stretches over them should be the kind of thing that makes Jack twitch. He’s not doing _anything_ , not working, not even talking. He’s just staring at Rhys, watching him peel the label off his empty bottle, head bowed, looking at how his neck curves. It shouldn’t be so fascinating, but it’s always a little weird and wrong, Rhys’ skin pale from the way he avoids the sun, begging for something and yet sitting unmarked.

Jack’s fingers itch again.

“You want another?” he manages to ask. The words seem difficult in his mouth, even though he realizes they’re easy words. For him, they’re just waiting to be fumbled. His mouth’s much better at other things, _anything_ but talking really, jesus.

Rhys nods slowly, pushing his bottle away and walking to the fridge himself.

Jack follows, to hell with the irritating polite fiction of this shit. He puts his hand on the metal door besides Rhys. When Rhys turns, Jack steps in, his foot between Rhys’, urging him back against the fridge. To his delight, Rhys goes easy, leaning back with all his weight. His eyes go soft and almost lidded, head tipping up, and _this_ is what Jack’s good at.

He cups Rhys’ jaw, thumb pressing against his lips. That alone makes him inhale sharply, eyes flicking up to Jack’s.

It’s been a while since they did this, and Jack savors it. Rhys’ lips are parted, and yield under Jack’s. He rolls his shoulders back, tips his head up, and Jack takes the invitation for what it is. He grasps Rhys’ arm, the warm one, and presses closer until he’s got his chest against Rhys and they’re breathing the same air.

It’s good, a slow meandering kiss. It’s been a while, but it comes back to them quickly, and the quiet of the kitchen’s overtaken by the hushed sigh Rhys lets out and the slip of their mouths together. It couldn’t be all that loud, but for Jack it feels deafening in his head, filling neglected spaces.

Rhys’ lips are wet as he leans back, taking a breath. The color’s high on his cheeks, and Jack’s happy to be the one who painted it there.

“I thought,” Rhys whispers, already leaning his forehead against Jack’s, looking at his mouth, “we weren’t doing this anymore.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack shrugs once before leaning in to nip at Rhys’ lips, hooking his fingers in the front pockets of Rhys’ pants. With a tug, Jack draws Rhys away, vindicated by the way Rhys caves immediately, following him to the bedroom.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

The first time Jack wanted to kiss Rhys, he was watching Rhys stand outside on the patio, just visible through the window. He was staring out at the lake, tapping his phone against his leg, his teeth pressed against his lower lip.

 _If he wants someone to bite that lip, I’m right here_ , Jack thought vividly, then blinked the thought away. Weird.

“For someone who has a night off,” Jack said, leaning out the window enough to talk to Rhys, “you seem even _more_ wound up.”

Angel was out for the weekend. That was unusual, but she had a sleepover with some friends from her music lessons or something. She’d been practically dancing through the villa with excitement over her _first_ sleepover. Rhys had fussed over her, helping her pack an overnight bag, triple-checking that she had her medicine, her phone, the phone charger, everything. None of it dented her sunny mood.

Now that she was away, though, Rhys seemed drained somehow. His phone tapped against his leg, pausing only at Jack’s words. He looked up slowly, blinking, and managed a wan smile.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Didn’t ask for an apology. Just wondering why the hell you look so put out, cupcake.”

“I’m not—“ Rhys sighed. “I’m just worried. If something comes up or she calls—“

Jack pushed back out of the window, circling around to the patio down and stepping out to join Rhys. “She’s fine. It’s a sleepover, not a black ops assignment. And if she does need you, she’ll call. No sense _waiting_ for that to happen.”

“I feel like…” He wrapped his arms around himself tightly, letting out a hard breath, the sound tense and uncomfortable, like a vice was fastened around his chest. “I’m supposed to be doing _something_. I just don’t know what.”

Jack leaned on the banister next to him, letting a smirk play over his face. “You’re handed a weekend off and you’re doing everything you can to talk yourself out of it.”

Rhys sighed. “I knoooow, I know.”

“What are you wanting to hear? That’s you’re a great mom and can cut loose a bit? Because I can tell you that.”

A smile stole over Rhys’ face at that, a peek of his white teeth between his lips. “God, Angel’s called me that a few times now too. I blame you. You’re an awful influence.”

Scoffing, Jack shrugged. “I’m going to buy you a goddamn _number one mom_ coffee mug, it’s a good thing. It’s…” He shook his head faintly. “It needed to be done, and you do it well. Take the damn compliment.”

Rhys quieted, and Jack turned his head away, grimacing. He wasn’t cut out for this, but god, if watching Rhys out on the patio didn’t make Jack want to try.

“Thanks,” Rhys said, voice hushed. “I… Angel is…” He paused, long enough that Jack looked back at him, wanting to see if the end of that sentence was written on his face instead. Rhys smiles wanly. “I appreciate… all of this. When you asked me, I didn’t think I could do a job like this. Now, I don’t really remember how _not_ to.”

That was something Jack could latch onto, something tangible instead of—everything else Rhys said. “If that’s what you need help with,” he said, leaning in a little, “I got some suggestions for you.”

Rhys bit his lip. “Such as?”

“Such as making use of that overstocked liquor cabinet we’ve got and cutting loose a little bit.” He put his hand over Rhys, fingers around the phone he was still absently tapping. Jack’s thumb pressed into Rhys’ hand, just a bit, just enough for him to relax his grip, letting Jack take the phone from him. “Let’s hang this up and get you a drink.”

Rhys huffed. “Trust me, I’m—when I get tipsy, I run my mouth, it’s terrible.”

Jack smirked. “I could stand to listen, cupcake. One of us should be good with words, huh?”

“It’s—oh my god, Jack, it’s not being _good_ with words, it’s pretty much the _opposite_.”

“Whatever. Come inside, have a goddamn drink.”

 

* * *

 

One of the things Jack had done when he became president of Hyperion was buy a liquor cabinet for his office. It was a necessity; what they didn’t tell him when he gleefully ousted Tassiter and took over was that _everyone_ in the country who’d ever collaborated with or worked for Hyperion would congratulate Jack on his new position with alcohol. After a month settling into the new position, Jack had elegant bottles just lined up around his home office and his office at HQ, more liquor than he’d ever drank in his life three times over.

So, a nice liquor cabinet became a must, and it was well stocked.

Jack had Rhys sit down in his nice plush-back chair as he mixed something up. Checking the office fridge, he saw he had frozen raspberries for some reason. That decided him. A few went into the crystal cut tumblers with some ice cubes.  He poured in one of his better gins, then rosewater and tonic, and handed off the entire kit to Rhys.

Rhys looked surprised. “Huh.”

“Bartended in college,” Jack answered, sitting on the corner of his desk, facing Rhys as he drank his own. As soon as he took a sip, Rhys seemed to work up the courage to do the same, the tumbler held carefully on his palm, fingers curled up against the glass.

Rhys’ eyes widened, his first sip immediately turning into a second, deeper one. “Oh, _wow_.”

Jack smirked, lifting his glass. “Cheers, pumpkin.”

“Haha, I’m not sure I deserve something this nice,” Rhys said, swishing his tumbler with his eyes cast low, a curve to his lips. “Don’t have the palette, or whatever its called.”

“You’re fine, Rhys.” Jack smirked at him over the rim of his glass. “Don’t worry, I’ll take away your keys, make sure you get to bed in one piece.”

Rhys snorted, but drank deeply, humming contentedly at the taste.

Later, Jack learned that Rhys had _not_ been kidding. He _was_ a chatty drunk.

After two drinks, Jack just left the ingredients on the desk, topping them both up every time the glasses started to look a little thirsty. Rhys sunk down in the chair further and further the more he imbibed, eventually putting his socked feet up on the desk, his chin against his collarbone and his glass held steady on his chest.

His socks were honestly cute, little gold clockwork gears patterned over a grey background. Rhys kept wiggling his toes and staring at them.

“Kids are easier than robots,” Rhys was saying. He was speaking much slower, and over enunciating a little. “They’re like… they come pre-loaded, right?”

Jack frowned, trying to follow. “Like, with bullets?”

“ _Software_ ,” Rhys said with a loud, exasperated sigh. “It’s like… You build a system. You have to build the software to run it. Mostly from scratch if you don’t have the… the libraries. Code libraries.” He finished off his current tumbler of G&T and held it out to Jack.

“Right. But pre-loaded shit’s awful, it’s mostly bloatware.” He used one hand to hold Rhys’ steady, the other pouring the gin, then the tonic, then a little more rosewater. Rhys seemed to like the rosewater a lot.

“Well, _yeah_ , but that’s.” He huffed and sipped his drink. “You still have a _foundation_. It’s all… no one’s software is perfect. You refine it, you uninstall the shit, you... do stuff. Some of it’s faulty, but you still _have_ the foundation.” He waved his hand to Jack. “Like you.”

Jack chuckled. “Like me. Okay. I think that’s closer to… hardware incompatibilities.”

“Naaah, no, you’re not… Hold this.” He held out his glass to Jack, who took it, and braced his hand so he could sit up. “Okay, gimme that.” He waited to have his glass in hand again before going on. “You’ve got the stuff, the software to run, it’s just a little harder. It’s like… Emulation?” He held his glass against his mouth, rocking it against his lips with a thoughtful look on his face. “No, no, that’s not it. That—that implies that your hardware isn’t built to run the software.”

“This metaphor’s getting a little weird, Rhysie,” Jack said, more than a little fond.

“It’s like Wine. Like, uh…. Wine Is Not an Emulator, it’s like…” Rhys held his glass to his temple, blowing out a breath. “It’s harder for the software to run, but it can run. It just needs help, you know?”

“Sure,” Jack said agreeably. When Rhys was drunk, he started speaking in Linux. Adorable. “I think I’m cutting you off.”

Rhys gasped and rolled the chair away, like Jack was going to steal his drink right out of his hand. “Mean. You’re mean. Everyone says.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack said, unable to keep from laughing. “Finish that up, you fricken’ lush, time for bed.”

Rhys’ room in the villa was across from Angel’s, one of the guest rooms they’d never used, easy to hand off to him. It was easier on all of them to have Rhys staying with them. It saved time and let Rhys be around more for Angel. It just made sense.

When Rhys was done with his drink, Jack helped him to his feet. Neither of them were perfectly steady, but where Rhys looked like he was built out of pipecleaners and toothpicks, Jack had some weight to him. And Jack got the impression he drank more regularly than Rhys did.

Point being, Jack kept an arm around Rhys as they both shuffled him off to bed.

Rhys’ room was a perpetual mess. All the organization in his work, the schedule-keeping and attention to detail, it was all missing from his living space. There were presumably-clean clothes on the dresser, piled haphazardly. The bed was unmade, and Jack had never once seen it actually done up properly. One lone sock was laid over the digital clock, dimming the light, and the floor was a minefield of roombas, of all things. Jack had _no_ idea where they’d come from, was pretty sure he didn’t own any of them, but there were about four of them sitting in various states of disassembly and repair.

Jack assumed it was a hobby of Rhys’ and figured he couldn’t judge. His office at HQ had more than a few weird things laying around anyway. The dart board with the knives stuck in it wasn’t exactly normal decor, or so his PA claimed.

“Sorry, mess,” Rhys said simply, shuffling to sit on the side of the bed. He rubbed his face, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn before it faded into a warm, tipsy smile. “Thanks. You make good drinks.”

“Damn right I do,” Jack muttered, and watched as Rhys shucked off his jeans, crawling back onto the bed. His hand pointed to the lamp, a mumble passing his lips, barely a hint of actual words involved. Jack got the idea though and went to flick off the light.

Rhys slept on his side, his arm wrapped around a spare pillow, fingers lax and just slightly curled. He was curved like a comma, and the sharpness of his eyes was lidded, leaving him looking softer, his hair mussed from his hair gel having long since failed.

Jack stopped and watched, standing over the bed. Then, after a moment of drinking in the way Rhys looked and finding it wasn’t enough, he knelt down next to the bed. His arms folded over the sheets and he leaned carefully in, examining the way Rhys’ lips moved as he breathed, the faint movement of his eyes under his lids.

Jack’s hands closed, clenching around the sheets. He wanted… he _wanted_ , god, it was sharp and clawed, how much he wanted.

When he could finally tear himself away, he got to his feet and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He needed to call Nisha.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, with the time zone difference, it wasn’t terribly late for Nisha when he called her.  He thought about opening with some crack about the Thousand Mile Rule or something, but when she picked up and said, “What’s going on, babe?”

Jack just said, “I think I want to kiss Rhys.”

There was a pause, then the low rumble of Nisha’s laugh over the line. “Well, _that’s_ a conversation starter. What brought this on?”

“No idea. I can feel it in my friggin’ teeth, though. Do you mind?”

She hummed, long and buzzing over the tinny connection. “I like Rhys. He’s good to have around. Hm. Do you want _me_ to kiss him too?”

Jack’s nose wrinkled as he considered that. “Uh, not sure. If you wanted?”

“Little too sweet for me, though maybe later.” She tsked. “Do you know what you’re getting into? That boy’s skittish like a ten point buck on the first day of hunting season.”

Jack didn’t actually know what that meant, but he could take a guess at the idea.  “Okay?”

She sighed, a simulated puff of air over the line. “I’m saying _be nice_. He ain’t like me, Jack.”

“I know, yeah.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, leaning out his doorway to look down the hallway. Not that he would see Rhys. If he saw Rhys before noon tomorrow, he’d be shocked. Didn’t stop him from hoping. “But it’s fine, you don’t mind?”

“Not particularly. Though, we _could_ make it a trade,” she said, humor curling in her tone. “You can have your fun with Rhys if I can have my fun with Timothy.”

“That... “ Jack rolled his eyes. “Nish, you’re going to kill him.”

“That is a risk I’m willing to take. Deal?”

“Yeah, sure, deal. Please don’t give my twin a heart attack. Twins are useful and Tim’s a decent one besides.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” There was something sly to her tone that made Jack frown. He supposed it made sense; Nisha thought he was hot, why wouldn’t she think the same about his identical twin? Still, it was hard not to worry about Tim. Hopefully Nisha wouldn’t eat him alive.

“You’ll be back soon, right? You’re due back in Austin next month.”

“Yup. I’ll see you then, Jack. Go have fun and… go easy on Rhys. Do _not_ scare him off.”

“Later, Nisha. Night.”

“Night, husband.” He could hear the kiss she pressed to the receiver, the smacking sound over the line, and smirked.

There was still that feeling, the effervescent bubbling in his mouth that made him want to grind his teeth, the _want_ in him. But that was fine. He had permission, and he could sleep through the ache knowing that.

He was going to find out if Rhys’ mouth was as inviting as it looked. Just not tonight. Not _just_ yet.

 

* * *

 

The villa was quiet with Angel away from home. It would have been an intolerable absence of noise, of _things_ going on, but having Rhys around settled Jack somehow.

Jack kept the door to his office open, shoving himself out of his chair to pace around the house whenever the quiet got to him. Each time, he found Rhys somehow. Early in the morning, he was just drinking coffee and reading something on his phone. Later, he was sitting on the floor of the living room, talking softly to a roomba as he fixed one of the wheels. Even later, Jack found him laid across the sofa, his legs folded to fit, his prosthetic sitting on the table in front of him as he slept, breathing soft and even.

After that, Jack spent some time in the home gym, needing the motion, needing to run until he could feel his pulse in his mouth, covering up the weird soda bubble sensation behind his teeth.

They had dinner, because that was normal for them. Usually, Angel was sitting on the stool between Rhys and Jack, but family dinner was one of those things Jack _understood_ and tried to do as much as he could. Even when he didn’t have much to say, he knew it was important, partly because Rhys had told him so a dozen times.

Jack could count the number of people he listened to on one hand with fingers left over, and Rhys was one of them. He didn’t know when that’d happened, but it had settled over Jack like the steady weight of a blanket, comfortable and _present_ every time he looked at Rhys.

Rhys glanced at him, then away again, fork clicking quietly against the plate. “You can go, if you need.”

“Hm?” Jack leaned his chin on his hand, nudging his own plate out of the way.

“If you have work to do, I mean. Angel’s not here, and I know you always have something going on. I don’t want to, uh, keep you.”

 _Why not?_ Jack thought. But that wasn’t what Rhys meant, and Nisha had said not to scare him off.

That part was important. Unfortunately, Jack wasn’t quite sure… how this was supposed to work. His ex-wife was so long gone, Jack barely _remembered_ how they’d worked together, and Nisha had just fallen in with him so easily, he never questioned it. It’d been _easy_ , up to and including the time he’d asked her to marry him and she’d laughed at him for not having a ring.

“Since when do you care about that crap?” Jack had asked, a hand pressed to his belly as he laid on the floor at her feet.

She’d pressed her heel down a little harder, making him grunt. “Since you started pulling in the big bucks, tiger. Get me a ring, and none of that blood diamond shit. I have enough on my conscience already.”

Rhys was not like Nisha, even a little. He had the same way of making Jack want to stand at attention, but it was different, it was another shape entirely. Jack launched himself at Nisha and found she was willing to collide with him, sharp nails and throaty laughter all the way down. Rhys was…

Something else, sharp but smooth, like a knife with a suede grip, something he wanted to curl his fingers around and sheath somewhere hot and warm. Jack's own chest, preferably.

Rhys was looking back at him now, waiting for Jack to say something. His ears were pink, and Jack ached to bite them.

 _Dammit_. Jack shook his head, climbing up and grabbing the plates, taking them to the sink. He needed to do something other than staring at Rhys. As understanding as Rhys was, even he’d get freaked out eventually.

It should have been _easier_. He wanted to kiss Rhys. That should have been enough.

Jack drained the last of his bottle, setting it aside for recycling. It was fine. He’d clean up, go back to his office, and grind it out of himself with work until he remembered it was all a terrible idea.

And it was, wasn’t it?

Jack couldn’t remember why.

Rhys stepped close, setting his own bottle down next to Jack’s. His eyes flicked up to Jack’s, then down again, and Jack kissed him.

Stupid idea, _worst_ implementation, if Jack was looking over his own work he’d have himself fired, it was sloppy and from the moment he did it, he was expecting that moment of frozen fear from Rhys. He could have gone still under the touch of Jack’s mouth, deer in the headlights, because as soon as he’d done it, Jack remembered, _right. Bad idea._

The hesitation wasn’t there, not even for a moment. Rhys’ hand closed hard around the front of Jack’s shirt, holding on as he leaned in. His mouth was soft, and he tasted like the ginger beer he’d been drinking, spicy and sugary against Jack’s tongue. Jack could feel the shocked inhale and pleased hum against his mouth as he turned, put Rhys’ back to the island, and dug one hand into his hair. It was a deep drowning from the get go, and Jack had no idea who was the anchor and who was just holding on.

 _Best idea_ , Jack thought, and pressed for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be up in a day or two and is literally just porn
> 
> because i'm trash and they need to bang, right? right.


	5. bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised: bonus chapter. no split timeline for this one. it's just porn.

Rhys wished he could say he didn’t see it coming. And maybe he never dared to articulate it to himself, never said the words _Jack Lawrence might want to fuck me_ , even in the privacy of his own head, but that didn’t mean Rhys didn’t _know._ He could feel it curling like smoke around them as they drank together, from the way Jack kept looking at his mouth, from the way he leaned in close when he helped Rhys to bed.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, that the Lawrence-Kadam marriage was an open one. Rhys just never expected that to factor into his life.

That was before Jack leaned in and fit his mouth over Rhys with an simple confidence that made Rhys burn with envy. The kiss was so fucking perfectly _Jack_ , the way Jack moved so fluid and comfortable in a way Rhys had never felt himself. He rolled his body close, pressing Rhys back against the kitchen island, and all Rhys could think to do was fist his hand in Jack’s shirt and hold on.

This was pretty unprofessional. It was hard to care about that, though. Rhys felt like he’d waited years to do this, the shivery tension in his body from all of Jack’s dark-eyed glances soothed away. Something tight in his chest released, and Rhys opened his mouth without prompt, sliding his arm up to wrap around Jack’s shoulders.

When Jack leaned back, he was grinning, lips shiny and red, the lines around his eyes crinkled. Seeing him like that knocked the breath right out of Rhys, a hard exhale. Jack just leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, murmuring, “That’s a good look for you, pumpkin.”

“Well,” Rhys said, matching Jack’s soft voice, “likewise.”

One of Jack’s hands cupped Rhys’ neck, his thumb tracing down along the vulnerable skin under Rhys’ chin, down his throat. “Soft,” he commented, and smirked when Rhys nervously swallowed. “You hide that well, don’t you, Rhys?” He bent, urging Rhys’ head to tip back and tracing the same path with his mouth. Rhys inhaled sharply, and felt Jack laugh against his skin.

God, Jack had no _idea_. It was almost funny.

Rhys kissed him again, biting his lip, drawing a keen noise out of Jack. “C’mon, we— we can’t do this here.”

Jack lifted his eyebrows. “Can’t we?” He pushed Rhys back, a hand catching his leg, lifting like he was going to tip Rhys right back onto the island. “No one else is home.”

“I— I’m _not_ doing this in the kitchen, Jack,” Rhys groused. There were _limits_ , all right? Or, Rhys had to pretend there were limits before Jack decided to try and persuade him.

Looking into Jack’s face, his sly grin, Rhys was worried Jack could be _very_ persuasive.

“Fine, fine, let’s just,” Jack said, stepping back, and hooked his fingers in Rhys’ front pockets, drawing him along.

Rhys should not have been surprised when Jack pulled him just outside the kitchen before crushing him against the wall, kissing him again. Laughter bubbled in Rhys’ chest at how _ridiculous_ it was, and how… nice it was, to be wanted that badly. For a moment he kissed back indulgently, humming at the explorative, deep kisses Jack pressed for.

It was a lazy Saturday, and Rhys hadn’t bothered to change into anything that counted as _clothes_. It was so easy for Jack to tuck his hands up under the threadbare shirt Rhys wore, so old and over-washed the graphic had long since faded away. Jack’s nails scratched up, just a slight sting, and Rhys moaned into his mouth, back arching to press harder into his hands.

Jack seemed to take that as invitation, and broke the kiss long enough to pull the shirt off over Rhys’ head.

Rhys slumped back against the wall, his hand settling on Jack’s chest, holding him back for a moment.

It took Jack just a few seconds to notice; Rhys could see it in his face, when he did. They were easy to miss if you weren’t looking, but Jack _was_ looking, saw the old, faded pink scars curved around Rhys’ chest.

Rhys had gotten plenty of reactions to them, from questions to recoils to silent nods.

“Aw, son of a taint,” Jack said, despairing. “I’m an asshole.”

A shocked laughed puffed out of Rhys. “Uh, wh—what?”

Jack looked contrite. It was a weird, almost completely foreign expression on his face. Rhys had never seen Jack look stung and repentant like that _ever_ , not in the years of knowing him. Jack settled his hand on Rhys’ side, warm against his ribs. “All those cracks about you being Angel’s mom, I never would have—”

Rhys snorted. “What, that? Jack. _Jack_.” He reached out, taking hold of Jack’s chin and lifting his head so he’d look at Rhys. “First time you said it, it took me about ten seconds to realize you weren’t being an asshole. Or, you were, but not _that_ kind of asshole.”

“I wouldn’t have said it, if I knew.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Do you care? Does this change anything?” When Jack shook his head, gaze dropping to roam over Rhys again, his tongue dark as it wet his lips, Rhys smiled. “Then don’t worry about it. Or, you know, make it up to me. But do _something_.”

“Make it up to you,” Jack repeated slowly, his hesitation melting off his face. He stepped in again, his hands tracing down Rhys’ sides. He bent, grabbing Rhys by his thighs. Rhys only had a second to put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, holding on, before he was lifted and pressed to the wall, Jack’s body flush against his. “I can do that.”

Rhys had _no_ doubt of that, his breath catching as Jack ground their hips together. Pajama pants were barely a barrier, and Rhys bit his lip at the pressure and heat. Yeah. Yeah, he was okay with Jack having something to prove. That sounded like a great idea, actually.

Under his hands, Rhys felt the way Jack’s muscles bunched, the effort it took to hold him up plain just under his skin. Every movement was so deliberate, had to be lest Rhys fall, and the grind of their bodies together was slow and dirty. That much intensity was more intoxicating than Jack’s rosewater gins, the heat unfurling in Rhys’ belly. It was almost too much, and Rhys bit his lip, tucking his face into Jack’s neck.

“You hiding, babe?” Jack’s voice was saccharine sweet, prickling through Rhys. Somehow, he rocked against Rhys harder, the line of his dick obvious against soft, sensitive skin. When Rhys’ breath hitched, Jack chuckled, turning his head to bite Rhys’ ear. “Going coy on me?”

It hurt, just enough to hold onto. Rhys focused on Jack’s teeth, not the momentary anxiousness in his chest. Following it back, Rhys opened his eyes, turned his head to kiss Jack again, mouth open, dragging the tip of his tongue over Jack’s lip.

“You were saying?” Rhys asked when Jack pulled back to breathe.

“Bed. I was saying bed.” He stepped back, and Rhys cursed, getting his arm around Jack’s shoulders again, holding on. Jack walked them down the hall to his room, kicking the door open in his haste. Rhys laughed, leaned in to kiss Jack’s temple, right next to the grey streaks of hair.

He was half-expecting to be thrown down and ravished or whatever, but Jack set Rhys onto the bed with care, following the movement down until he was on his knees. The image of Jack kneeling in front of him was— it was _something_ , and only kindled the heat in Rhys’ chest further.

Jack watched him for a moment, his hands rubbing under Rhys’ pants for a moment before taking hold of the waistband and pulling. Rhys lifted his hips, helping get them off, and flushed hot at the sight of himself, the dark spot of his briefs.

Without missing a beat, Jack leaned in, cupped Rhys’ hip and pressed his fingers right against Rhys, making him jump and let out a shocked moan. “Yeah?” Jack asked roughly, his fingers moving. “Wet already, Rhysie?”

“Jesus, Jack,” Rhys managed, gripping his shoulder, rocking his hips just a little.

“That’s it.” Jack pushed up, nudging Rhys until he fell onto his back, and climbed up on his knees onto the bed. His hand on Rhys’ hip tightened, holding him still as he worked his fingers, the noise loud and damp, making Rhys whine. “ _That’s_ it, babe, like that?”

 _Obviously_ , Rhys wanted to snap, but it dissolved in his throat, coming out as a groan. His heels dug into Jack’s back, holding on.

“ _Fuck_ , Rhys. Rhys.” He pulled at Rhys’ briefs. “Let me eat you out, come on.”

Rhys’ eyes pinched shut. “Oh my god.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, that, but louder. Come on, kitten, lemme have you, want to make you friggin’ scream.” He patted Rhys’ leg. “Gotta let go first.”

Right. As strangely satisfying as it was getting his legs around Jack, it was getting between him and Jack going down on him, and that was unacceptable. He lifted his legs, helped Jack work his briefs up and off. Jack flung them somewhere over his shoulder with such an _annoyed_ grunt, Rhys couldn’t help snickering.

He wasn’t laughing for long. Jack hitched Rhys’ legs over his shoulders, shot him a filthy smirk, and licked his lips before leaning down. His fingers held Rhys open as he got his mouth on him, lips wet and warm where Rhys was already pretty damn wet and warm himself. For a second, Rhys almost reached down to touch, wanting to hold onto Jack’s thick hair, but it was somehow too much, and Rhys fisted his hand in the sheets instead, sucking in a breath.

It was good for a moment, with Jack’s tongue pressing broad to the clit, toe-curlingly good. But he lifted his head, mouth a mess, and said, “Hey. That’s mine,” pointing to Rhys’ clenched hand.

Rhys didn’t understand until he offered his hand, and Jack grabbed his wrist, pushing his fingers into Jack’s hair. “There,” Jack said, satisfied, and let go, instead gripping Rhys’ thighs, bracketing his head.

Rhys huffed, the noise catching and turning into another groan as Jack went down on him, his tongue rolling in smooth circles. White hot pleasure lanced through Rhys, his hand going tight in Jack’s hair. Two fingers pushed into him, sliding in easy, and Rhys threw his head back, shouting. It was tight, just on the edge of being too much, but Jack worked his tongue, and it was _good_ , overwhelming in a sweet-sharp way. His hips rocked up into it mindlessly as Jack just hummed and kept at him.

It’d been a while, and though Rhys would never admit it, Jack was _really_ good. Enough so that the pressure built in Rhys’ gut, his legs going taut enough that his muscles hurt. Sucking in a breath, Rhys tugged at Jack’s hair, gasping, “Jack, Jack, I, oh _fuck_.”

There wasn’t enough time to hold it off; Jack’s fingers pushed in to the knuckle and curled, and Rhys fell into a sharp, sudden orgasm, back arching and eyes open wide. It was all too much, but his hips pressed up for more, and Jack’s mouth worked, fingers thrusting and pressing against his folds hard until Rhys could barely breath and fought to gasp, “ _Enough, can’t—_ ” and it finally stopped.

Fingers out and tongue licking softly, Jack eased Rhys down. It took a moment just to catch his breath, but Rhys relaxed back, head lolling, dizzy with a flush all through his body, spread from his neck down.

“ _God_ ,” Rhys managed, shuddering through an aftershock.

Jack lifted his head, wiping his face with his sleeve, grinning smugly. “Jack’s fine, babe.”

Rhys snickered indelicately, turning his head into the sheets. “You’re awful. Oh my god.”

“Am I?” Jack tsked loudly, his hand— Rhys cursed as Jack’s fingers sunk into him again, thumb pressing just under his clit, just barely on the edge of being too sensitive. “That’s not very _nice_ , Rhys.”

Rhys wanted to snap at him that it was too much too soon, that he couldn’t get there again that soon, but Jack’s fingers were careful, pushing in deeply, slowly, and dragging back out again. Opening his mouth, Rhys’ protests died on his lips, his eyes nearly crossing as Jack worked him up again, patient and steady.

It wasn’t like he’d never come twice; that was one of the touted upsides of the whole vagina business. But it was a once in a blue moon thing, something that required planning, or a lot more liquor than Rhys really enjoyed.

Jack just making it happen while he was still dressed was not okay. Rhys lifted a knee, pressed Jack away with it. “You are not— no, not with your pants still on. No,” he said, voice shaking slightly.

To his quiet delight, Jack didn’t argue, just climbed to his feet and stripped. His shirt came off first, then his pants and boxers were pushed down. Jack was shockingly long and lean, his shoulders broader than Rhys expected. There was definition to his body that Rhys had never even _attempted_ to get with his own.

Jack smirked and put a hand on his hip, bending just a little, _posing_ for Rhys. “Yeah, babe?”

Rhys snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, very nice. You want to walk the catwalk or do you want to fuck me?”

God, but Jack was _expressive_. Sometimes words didn’t work for him, Rhys knew, but his body was fluent enough; he stopped breathing for just a moment, body tensing along his chest and arms, and his dick jerked up, clearly interested. Rhys turned his head away, cheeks bright. It felt unfair, the way Jack was an open book when he was naked, how everything was writ large in his body.

Rhys pushed himself up onto the bed, finally laying on it properly. He was too tall to stay sideways, his feet or head destined to hang off awkwardly. He rolled onto his hand and knees to move, and heard Jack curse under his breath behind him.

Jack opened the bedside drawer, grabbing a condom before climbing onto the bed behind Rhys, his hands heavy and warm on Rhys’ ribs, up and down his back. It felt good enough for Rhys to pause, remaining on his knees, looking over his shoulder.

“Like this? C’mere, Rhys, just.” He pulled, coaxing Rhys to kneel, his back pressed to Jack’s chest. Both of Jack’s arms wound around him, grasping with wide open palms, like he couldn’t touch enough skin. Rhys shut his eyes, letting his head loll back on Jack’s shoulder and smiling as Jack kissed his neck.

“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “Yeah, this is good. Isn’t it, babe, just…” His hands slipped away, just long enough to tear open the condom and roll it on. He took hold of Rhys’ hips after, tilting them. “Like that, yeah.”

Rhys nodded, teeth pressing down on his lip as Jack held him again. He could feel Jack’s cock against him, blood-hot and so close. He moved, practically writhing in Jack’s embrace to tip his body right, his weight falling back and taken easily. Jack’s dick slid wet against him, so easy with Rhys slick from Jack’s mouth and orgasm. “Oh _god_ ,” Rhys moaned, head falling back again.

Jack’s hand splayed wide over Rhys’ skin, palm pressing against his pelvis. Urged back, Rhys’ eyes fell shut as he felt Jack’s dick ease into him.

Lips against his ear, “God, you’re so good for me, Rhys, you’re so fucking hot for me,” Jack said.

Rhys wanted to tell Jack the same, that it’d been so long and felt so good, that his hands were fucking _magic_ the way they were coaxing Rhys to move and how good it felt, he wanted to tell Jack a dozen things that Jack and his ego frankly didn’t need to hear.

Instead, Jack fucked Rhys slow and steady, moving them together with his hands guiding, and Rhys just gasped and moaned along, every word catching in his throat. His knees spread just a little more, and Jack’s dick worked in so deep, it was drowning, and Rhys reached back to grip Jack’s hair tightly, keeping him close, desperate for an anchor.

Jack couldn’t keep his hands still, until he tucked one between Rhys’ legs. It was a loose touch, just his fingers against Rhys’ clit. For a second, Rhys didn’t understand, because Jack wasn’t _doing_ anything, but his hips still moved, and Jack’s fingers moved with him, and _oh_. Oh, it felt so good, and he rocked on Jack’s dick harder, faster.

“Fffuck,” Rhys said with feeling.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, mouthing at Rhys’ neck. “Yeah, yeah.” His other hand curled around Rhys’ neck.

It was a steady pressure, and hit Rhys like a chemical fire. A loud cry tore out of his throat, his hips stuttering, moving jerkily as he tried so hard, so damn close again already.

Jack squeezed, just enough for Rhys to feel each one of his fingers, and Rhys came like that, Jack kissing his neck, his own choked cry filling his ears.

He was still shuddering when he landed on his back on the bed, and Jack sank into him again, strokes long and regular. Rhys opened his eyes to watch, panting and dazed, as Jack braced over him and fucked him, their eyes locking.

He would’ve liked to seen what Jack looked like as he came, but Jack bent down, biting Rhys’ shoulder as orgasm shook through him.

Jack was heavy on top of Rhys, and Rhys sighed out, settling his hand between Jack’s shoulder blades. “Ow,” he said.

He felt Jack laugh against him, his bite turning to a long, careful lap of his tongue, tracing the mark. He kept at it for a moment, and it was…. weirdly soothing.

Eventually, Jack climbed off of him, _out_ of him, sitting back on his heels. His condom was tied off, tossed in the bin next to the night stand. For a moment Rhys worried Jack would say something, would want to talk about it… but he just reached into the bedside table again and pulled out a wet wipe, dragging it over himself, and fucking _humming_.

He also got out another one and leaned over Rhys, dragging it against Rhys’ body in long, slow strokes that felt more like being felt up that being cleaned up. Rhys couldn’t work up the energy to care, though, and Jack’s hands still felt really nice besides.

When he was done, though, there was a twinge of uncertainty in Rhys’ gut. Maybe he should have… they were, well, _done_ , so maybe he was supposed to… go. But he was still swimming in the nice warm feelings, the way the tension had just unspooled, leaving him loose and comfortable. He didn’t want to get up just yet.

That was apparently okay. Jack yanked the blankets out from under Rhys and pulled them over them both, laying down next to Rhys. “Nice,” he said on a sigh, and Rhys had no idea if it was a compliment or a personal assessment or _what_ , but it was funny, and Rhys laughed.

Apparently he could stay for now, and gladly shut his eyes, deciding to put off his worrying and second-guessing until tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

The place is called the Wrecking Ballroom. It’s a very pretty, modern building that suits Austin well, shining with its solar panel-laden roof and winding, stone path up to the entrance. It’s not far out of downtown, situated on the edge of a more residential area. Rhys can imagine just how _thrilled_ the locals must be with their neighbors.

Today, in the late morning, it’s quiet, only a few cars parked around the building. Rhys joins them and heads up the path and into the building, trying not to hold his breath.

This is Jack’s idea of kindness. He tries to remind himself of that every time his steps start to falter in his nervousness.

All he knows is that he’s going to meet the team captains today, and takes his time outside, his hand on the door. It’s warm, the sunned metal seeping heat into his hand. It’s nice, and he sort of just wants to stay there enjoying it for a long as possible.

His phone beeps eventually, reminding him of this meeting that he’s avoiding petulantly. Rhys sighs, takes out his phone and cancels the alarm before squaring his shoulders and heading inside.

The entryway is just a trophy room, and Rhys doesn’t waste his time looking any closer; he doesn’t want to be late.

Through the next set of doors is what must be the actual... ballroom. It’s a huge arena with stands and bright lights, scoreboards, and painted murals on the walls. Over by the stands are two women talking, their bodies turned in towards each other, voices so hushed Rhys can’t hear them at all, can just see their lips move.

The taller of the two is wearing a pretty nice hat, almost covering the strip of her hair that’s dyed pink. She has her arms folded and just… doesn’t look too friendly. Her companion is sitting on a railing, her hand toying with a necklace around her neck. She has a softer face and a kinder look, short locs held back with a colorful headband.

The captains, Rhys assumes, who recently lost their… well, Rhys doesn’t know who the previous team owner was to them, but he’d guess someone close.

The woman in the hat is the first to notice him, turning at the sound of his footsteps. Her hands clench into fists on her hips. “We’re closed to the public today,” she calls across the room. “Next match isn’t for a while, you can check the schedule outside.”

At least she’s nice about it. Or, her voice is nice, weirdly kind despite the flat line of her mouth and the way her brows are knit together. As Rhys gets closer, he can see the almost dainty nose that’s mirrored in the face of the other woman. Immediately, Rhys wonders if they’re related, then remembers that the team was left in the hands of two sisters: Fiona and Sasha.

“Sorry, I’m not— you’re Fiona and Sasha, right?” Rhys says, trying on a small smile. “I’m Rhys, your manager. I’m here to help get you settled in.”

Both their faces shutter hard, and Rhys is _certain_ these are the sisters now, the expressions on their faces almost uncannily similar in that way that only comes from that kind of familiarity.

“We’ve been here all of an hour and Hyperion’s already sent the nanny over?” the other asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Sasha,” Nice Hat says— Fiona, by process of elimination, shooting her sister a glance before offering Rhys a look that’s almost equally cold. “Listen, Rhys. We’ve recently lost someone very dear to us and immediately after learned our team, the team we’ve been part of since we were old enough to legally play, was bought out by Hyperion. This is a _little_ ill-timed, don’t you think?”

She says it like sweet venom, words cruel but spoken softly, and if Rhys were anyone else, he might’ve been cowed by it.

But Rhys has worked at Hyperion for most of his adult life now and at Hyperion, you either grow an iron backbone, or you have a nervous breakdown and leave the company within a year.

Rhys smoothes back his hair, an instinctive nervous tic, and says, “I’m sorry for your loss, as much as I can be without having known Felix myself. This period must be awful, having to keep the team together while handling… everything.” He takes a breath, lowering his hand and resting his fingers on his breastbone. “That said, I’m here to _help_. Felix’s will set up the buy to keep this team alive. I think we can all agree that’s a noble goal, huh?”

Sasha lifts her eyebrows, tracing Rhys from head to toe with her eyes. It’s a hard, appraising look that makes Rhys want to bristle. “Do you even know how to skate?”

 _Busted_ , Rhys thinks vividly, hoping it doesn’t show on his face. “I know how to sign your checks and all the paperwork you need for new equipment.”

Sasha grins, and he’s surprised at how much humor is in it. “Oh, _this._ This is going to be _great_.”

“Sash,” Fiona says quellingly, the name just a sigh. “Fine, you want to help? We need word out about tryouts. We need to fill out the team, since half of them left when we got sold.”

Rhys frowns. “Why would they… oh. Right.” Sell-outs. He wisely keeps the actual words to himself and nods. “I can arrange things, if you want.”

“Great. Make ‘em for the end of the week,” Sasha says and smirks at her sister. “Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

Rhys smiles, certain that it’s not reaching his eyes, and tries to remember that making enemies on his first day of this job is a bad idea.

God, he’s going to kill Jack.

 

* * *

 

So Rhys ignores three calls from Jack over the next few days and hurriedly familiarizes himself with roller derby through videos and the official rulebook. The Hollow Point Bullet Babes had their own site, and a respectable following for an amateur circuit team. Now, however, they’re the Hyperion Bullet Babes, which actually makes Rhys a little sad. The name lacks the same punch.

They also aren’t really a team anymore. The roster’s thin; Fiona and Sasha are on it, as well as someone named Tina. Tina, he discovers as he leafs through paperwork, is technically too young to play, but has parental permission. Rhys bites his lip, nervous about children playing in such a contact sport.

He brings it up to Sasha on tryout day.

“Tiny Tina?” Sasha laughs. “She’s Booticca’s daughter, she’s grown up with derby. Don’t worry, and _don’t_ let her overhear you questioning her place on the team. She’s small, but she’ll take you out at the knees.”

For a while, Rhys feels like he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into another world, where his experiences with robotics, AI development, and parenthood are useless. A simmering anxiety twists in his stomach, and he spends much of the tryouts with his arms crossed protectively over his chest, fingers tapping irritably at the hard casing of his myo arm.

Then, Gaige shows up. Which helps a great deal. He watches her try out with another girl who’s aiming to be a blocker, and thus watches Gaige send the other girl careening off the track over and over, laughing with dark delight as she skates ahead.

“ _Hey_ , bossman!” Gaige crows when Fiona blows the whistle, skating over to Rhys where he’s hovering by the captains’ table. “What brings you to the Wrecking Ballroom?”

“You two know each other?” Fiona asks, giving Rhys a look of renewed interest.

Gaige taps Rhys’ shoulder lightly. “Rhys here was de facto head of Robotics until recently, he’s good people.”

“Huh,” Fiona says, volumes encapsulated in one syllable.

Rhys hopes that’s a good thing, but Fiona is hard to read. She reminds him of Nisha in a way, that implacable face that gives so little away. He shakes his head and smiles at Gaige. “I’m still your bossman then. I’m managing the team.”

“Oh man, _nice_.” She turns back to the team captains, hands on her hips. “So, what’d ya think, babes?”

Sasha leans forward and points her pen at Gaige’s arm. “You have something for that?”

Gaige nods and pats the industrial metal. “I got padding for matches, yep. Promise not to kill anyone.”

“Cool. Fi?”

Fiona nods. “I liked what I saw. Despite your taste in friends, I think you’re in.”

“Ha ha ha,” Rhys says, trying not to be stung. “I’ll go get the paperwork.”

“Hey, hey, I’ll come with,” Gaige says, following Rhys as he leaves. She spins, a perfect arc with her toes pointed, letting herself roll smoothly until she can wave to the sisters. “Nice meeting you! Look forward to helping smash Jakobs out of the top spot.”

“For that, we’ll need a jammer,” Sasha calls back.

“Hey, I can jam,” Fiona says.

Sasha’s sudden silence says a lot, and Rhys ducks his head, smirking as he heads through one of the side doors.

The hyper-clean glamour of the arena gives away to disappointingly taupe hallways as soon as they’re through the doors. The lighting here is harsher, has that effect of making Rhys look even more pale and gaunt than he is. The lack of attention to the backstage areas makes Rhys wonder who handled the design and construction of the place. Definitely not Hyperion; not enough orange and superfluous hexagons around.

“So. From managing Robotics to managing a derby team,” Gaige says. “You must’ve pissed off the handsome bossman somethin’ awful.”

Rhys snorts, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, this is him trying to do me a favor. Long story, don’t ask.” He looks askance at her as he reaches his office, opening the door for them both. “What about you?”

“I have been _waiting_ for Hyperion to get a team for ages. I mean.” She rocks on her wheels, like perpetual motion in human form. Just looking at her makes Rhys feel older, it’s ridiculous. “I tried out for the Jakobs team but they were looking for a jammer, not a blocker.”

“And a jammer is…” Rhys wracks his brain. “That’s the one who scores points, with the star hat?”

“Oh, _man_.” Gaige laughs, then stifles it down. “Sorry, I just— yeah, jammer. Oh, don’t look like that, Angel was the _same_ way!”

“Angel?” Rhys lifts his eyebrows. “What about her?”

“Well, I had to take her to an actual match before this, right? Poor gal was so lost. Hopefully Fiona and Sasha don’t actually quiz her on anything, she’s a little,” she see-saws her hand. “But she’ll learn quick! If she gets picked, anyway.”

He’s missing something, clearly. Rhys frowns and asks, “What do you mean, get picked for what?”

“Uh, jammer, I think.” Gaige jerks her head back to the door. “She was next up after me.”

“ _Angel?!”_

Gaige stills at his outburst, looking hesitant. “Uh… no? Is… is that the right answer here?” Her smile grows nervous. “Did I say something wrong?”

Rhys doesn’t wait around for more explanation, just hurries out of the office as quickly as he’d arrived. He slows long enough to call back, “Fill out the papers on the clipboard!” before he’s pushing pushing through the doors back out to the arena.

When he gets close enough to the edge to see, he leans over to watch Angel, her hair pulled back out of her face, her body tilted at a steep angle as she skates. She’s bent low, one hand held out to maintain her balance as she goes, her eyes focused on the track in front of her.

Fiona stands in the middle of the track, a stopwatch in her hand and her gaze steady on Angel.

Next to him, Sasha is nodding. “Her form is terrible but she’s fast, look at her.”

Rhys grits his teeth. “I thought there were regulations against this.”

The look Sasha gives him is _baffled_. “Against _what_?”

“Age.”

That seems to shake Sasha, who turns back to the table and picks up a sheet of paper. It’s the application for prospective recruits to the team, a basic form on the front with some waiver information at the bottom. Sasha turns it over, to where they’ve been photocopying the applicant’s IDs. “What are you talking about, she’s twenty-three.”

Rhys _laughs_ and holds out his hand for the paper, taking it and looking for himself. “Oooh my god,” he says, shaking his head and turning, heading down to the edge of the track. Over by Fiona, Angel’s coasting to a stop, her hands on her knees as she breathes heavily.

Rhys slides most of the way down the banked track, letting out a yelp that makes Fiona and Angel jump, turning to him. Angel’s expression freezes for a stunned second. “Rh—Rhys, what are you doing here?”

Fiona glares between them. “Why does everyone know this guy?”

Rhys climbs to his feet and stumbles closer, not letting his moment of clumsiness get in the way of putting on what Jack always called his Mom Voice. “Since when,” he asks sternly, holding up Angel’s form, “do you have a fake ID?”

Angel’s mouth drops open soundlessly. “I—I, um.”

“ _What_ is going on here?” Fiona snaps.

“Fiona,” Rhys starts, voice faux-bright. “This is Angel Lawrence, Jack Lawrence’s daughter, who is _definitely_ not twenty-one, let alone twenty-three.” He gestures between them. “Angel, this is Fiona. Now that introductions are over, will you excuse us?”

To her credit, Fiona doesn’t look shocked, just _more_ annoyed. “Great. I get a decent jammer and lose her in the same five minutes. The good fortune never stops.” She rubs her eyes. “Get off my track so I can bring in the next person, please.”

“Gladly,” Rhys says, and beckons Angel along.

It takes a moment to climb back out of the track, but Rhys manages.

 

* * *

 

“ _Where_ did you get a fake ID?” is the first thing Rhys asks when they’re alone in the locker room.

Angel is not a small girl; she has her father’s height, long and a little gangly at her age, but coming up to Rhys’ chin, which is above average height, Rhys knows. Now, though, she seems tiny, her shoulders slumped, arms around herself and knees bent, all making her seem significantly shorter than she really is. As soon as they settle in the locker room, she sits on one of the benches, her hands between her knees and hair in her face.

“A friend. It was just to get into some places on Sixth. S—since I got into university early, a lot of my friends were going to clubs and bars. I just wanted t—to go with them.”

“Oh, that’s all,” Rhys says. Angel winces, and he stops, taking a breath. “Angel.”

“I _know_ , I know,” she replies quickly. “But I— I just wanted to try out, and Gaige said it’d be fun, and I never did a sport before but this one is— it’s _great_ , Rhys, I saw a match and it’s so great.” She drew a leg up, hugging it and resting her cheek on her knee, looking up at Rhys through the curtain of her hair. “I’m old enough to play.”

“Noooo, no you’re not,” Rhys counters.

“If I had parental permission, I could!”

Rhys lifts his eyebrows and spreads his hands, because _really_?

Her lip trembles just a little before she inhales deeply. “Rhys, I just… I wanted to do this. I think I could be good at it. I think it could be good _for_ me. It’s hard work and the women who do this are _amazing_ , I—” She reaches up to rub one of her eyes, sniffling. It’s really unfair. “Maybe I wanted to see if I could be like them.”

Rhys presses his lips together, refusing to feel like the bad guy here; he's not the girl with the fake ID after all. “Then you should talk it over with—”

Angel lifts her head, eyes fiery and bright all of a sudden. “Oh _no_ , Rhys, you _know_ he’ll say no! He— he never lets me have things like this, not when they _matter_!”

“So what do you want me to do?”

Angel widens her eyes at him and holds his gaze for a moment.

Rhys shakes his head. “No, Angel, no. Jack, your father would kill me.”

She shakes her head hard, climbing back to her feet, and _now_ she’s drawn up to her full height. It worries him, how she’s learning to do that, to hold herself certain ways. It reminds him strongly of Jack. “Okay, one? He _definitely_ wouldn’t, he’d be useless without you, all of Hyperion would fail in a week.”

Rhys narrows his eyes, unwilling to be buttered up. Even if it’s probably true.

“Two,” she goes on, “he doesn’t _have_ to know!”

“You think—” Rhys starts pacing, because he needs to, the anxious energy in his legs too much to stand. “What about your condition?”

“I haven’t forgotten to take my medicine in ages, and I’ll be _extra_ vigilant about it!”

Oh god, they’re bargaining. Rhys curses to himself, wondering how control over this slipped so quickly out of his hands. Maybe he’s out of practice with Angel now. “Angel,” he sighs, bringing up a hand to rub the back of his neck.

She rolls closer to him, reaching out to brace herself on his arm. “Please, Rhys, _please_. You can sign Dad’s name on anything, and I…” She bites her lip, voice softer. “I’ve never asked for anything like this.”

“The tattoo,” he points out immediately.

“I didn’t ask about that! And I should have.” She smiles tentatively. “Now I’m asking. Please? At least let me _try_ , Rhys?”

He’s crumbling, because he’s weak to Angel, has always been _far_ too invested in her, even from the start of their— the strangeness that was their life, the connection that was never as professional and detached as it maybe should have been. She takes his hand in both of hers, squeezing, and watches him with big blue eyes.

She probably knows he’s going to cave before he does, smiling fondly at him as he shuts his eyes and sighs. “Okay. Okay, Angel.”

“Yes! Oh my gosh, thank you, _thank you_ ,” she cheers, her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a hug that he returns, can’t imagine not returning warmly. “Thank you, Rhys, I promise I will be the best da— darn jammer ever.”

He nods against her hair and lets out another sigh, defeated and relieved to feel the weight of it leave his chest. “You better. Go tell your team captains you’re cleared to play.”

Angel bounces on her toes, smiling like sunshine, and starts to skate away before Rhys remembers, and catches her elbow. “Wait.”

“Hm?”

He holds out a hand. “Fake ID.”

She pouts, and tucks her hand into her jeans. “Darnit.”

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

Being called up to Handsome Jack’s office was never a good sign.

The company was better off with him in charge, everyone at Austin HQ knew it, but no one wanted the man’s personal attention. So when Rhys got an email requesting his presence up in Jack’s office, the _new president’s office_ — well. _Request_ probably wasn’t the right word.

Either way, as he sat across from Jack, he fought to keep calm and just hoped he wasn’t about to be fired.

When Jack finally finished eyeing him across the desk, he clicked his tongue once and said, “So, you met my Angel a while back. Got along pretty well with her too.”

As if Rhys hadn’t been on the verge of losing his shit already. He didn’t know what his face did then as the bone-deep fear settled in on him, but it was enough to make Jack laugh, his head tipped back with the loud _guffaw_ of it. “Jesus, cupcake, your face. You’d think you were staring down barrel’s end.”

“I—I—I just thought she— well, she was crying, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jack waved his hand, his tattoo bright on his wrist, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Ange told me all about it. S’good, you did good, kid, relax.” He flipped open a folder that was sitting on the desk in front of him. “Rhys Sommerset, joined Hyperion right out of school. Y’think Robotics would survive without you?”

For a moment, Rhys’ fear had settled, only to spike again. “I— I, uh, I’m doing a lot of the heavy lifting on the AI coding, sir, and building the code library.”

With a sigh, Jack rolled his eyes heavily. “Kid, you’re _not_ getting fired, so friggin’ relax and answer the questions.”

Rhys swallowed, thinking about it. If he wasn’t being fired then why was he essentially being asked if he was replaceable? He was… there was _no way_ he was getting a promotion, right? But that’d be great. Fear smashed into excitement in his belly, the nausea pretty intense, but he nodded and said, “I’m not _essential_ to the team, maybe, but I’d hate to leave my work to anyone else. Not everyone has my background.”

That, for some reason, made Jack grin and snap his fingers, jabbing one at Rhys. “No, they don’t, do they?” He flipped a page in the folder. “AI development and a minor in childhood development, _that’s_ got to be a first for Hyperion.”

“Well, we’re working in creating AIs with personalities, with heuristic learning, so that kind of thing’s useful. Sir.” Rhys winced.

To his relief, Jack was grinning, like he’d just won a prize. “Any experience with actual kids?”

“Not a lot. I had to do some volunteering hours in school, but with just a minor, it wasn’t a priority.” He shrugged. “And when spots are limited, the students majoring are going to get first pick.”

“That’s fine. I mean, you’ve got what it takes anyway, I talked to some people— or. I mean, I sent my PA to talk to your department, since apparently I can’t walk around down there without giving someone a conniption.” He waved his hand through the air. “Point is, the words someone used were _den mother of robots_ , which is hilarious but also exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Uh, I… I mean, I repair some of the prototypes—” Rhys began defensively.

“And apparently keep them in a pen in your office and talk to them,” Jack countered. “Someone had pictures. Really a Hallmark moment, there.”

Probably Vasquez, that prick. He was never going to lead the Robotics department, that asshole, just because he never treated the prototypes well. Rhys knew the coding, the programming, that being personable _helped_.

And some of the prototypes were cute. It wasn’t his fault that no one else appreciated that.

Taking a steadying breath, Rhys said, “Sir—”

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack, okay. What… is this about?”

“Glad you asked. That only took you wrestling your courage for about seven minutes, not bad.” Jack shut the folder and pushed it away, leaning back in his chair. He kicked his heels up, laced his fingers together to rest them on his belly, seeming very satisfied with himself. “Have you met my wife?”

“No, not personally.” Which was a good thing, as far as Rhys was considered; Nisha Kadam was the company fixer, so anyone who met her face to face had probably screwed up to a serious degree.

“Nisha’s great. Like, you don’t know this, obviously, but you should be super jealous of me because _man_ , being married to Nish is _great_. Does this thing with her nails…” Jack shook his head, clearing his throat. “She’s not motherhood material.”

Rhys blinked. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be, she’d say the same if you asked her. Not really a maternal bone in her body.” For a second, something flashed over Jack’s face, covering the jocular ease with something harder. It faded, but when Jack went on, it was with a voice more tempered. “And I have a thing that prevents me from being the… kind of paternal that Angel needs. But, lucky me, I’m the new president and I have the bank account to show for it. So, why not solve the problem with money?”

“Problem?”

“Angel needs a strong parental figure, someone who _is_ good at all that stuff, who doesn’t have to fight to do the sort of things Angel needs.” He slumped a little in his chair, bracing his cheek on his fist, elbow on the armrest. “I want to hire you to be Angel’s mom.”

Rhys rocked back against his chair, frowning. This seemed… a long way to go to be an asshole to Rhys, and in a way Rhys honestly hadn’t expected from within Hyperion walls. In the past, he’d had a few issues with Vasquez running his damn mouth, but getting him suspended last year had shut that down pretty hard.

As levelly as he could, Rhys said, “That’s a… strange way to put it, sir.”

Jack frowned at the frost in Rhys’ voice, but shrugged. “I mean, I could call you nanny, but that’s _eh_. What I want is for you to help Angel on a daily basis, take her to school, make sure she’s doing okay, and…” His lips turned sharply downward. “Do the things I can’t.”

“Can’t,” Rhys echoed. “I don’t think I understand.”

Sighing loudly, Jack shut his eyes, head falling back. “Dammit, I wanted to side-step all this shit. Look, here’s the brief for you, and if you breathe a _word_ of this outside this room, you’re not just going to be fired, you’re going to have to find a new field to work in ‘cause I’ll _happily_ ruin you. Comprende?”

Rhys nodded.

Jack opened his eyes again. “Good. The short version is that I want you to be Angel’s mom because I’m not always good at being her dad, and Nisha’s not up for that. I have days when I’m a _great_ dad, but.” He let out a tense breath. “I’ve got what they call a _personality disorder_ that means I sometimes don’t do the right thing by Angel. You don’t need to know the details, except that I’m in a unique position; I can throw money at the problem. Make sure Angel gets what she needs, deserves.” His voice grew tart. “That enough information, Mr. Sommerset? Or is this gonna turn into twenty questions?”

“No, no, I…” Rhys wasn’t sure what to _say_. He felt… guilty for knowing this about Jack. It wasn’t his business. Except.

Except now, Rhys was thinking about Angel and her big bright eyes, and how staggeringly smart she was.

Jack smirked, expression going a little less frosty. “You’re thinking about it now, pumpkin, I see it.”

“Even if I was, that’s…” Rhys sighed. “I’m not sure I would… know what to do?”

“Then let me make this easy.” He leaned forward, halfway across the desk, making eye contact like a land claim. “We’ll do a trial run. You spend a week with Angel, see if I’m right about this. Next Monday, you still think you’re not cut out for it, I’ll pay you for the entire month and turn you loose.” His smile was gleaming and white, and curved the scar on his face in interesting ways. “You in, Rhys?”

“Yeah,” Rhys said, because he was a soft sell and because it’d be good money even if it didn’t work out and because the weight of Jack’s extended trust was heavy on his shoulders and because Angel did deserve… something Rhys could maybe provide. “Yeah, I’m in.”


	7. Chapter 7

And so Angel is jammer for the Hyperion Hollow Points.

She’d known, deep down, that she would be able to convince Rhys. The moment that he showed up— and what were the _odds_ of that, that Rhys would be the team manager, what were the odds— she’d known that she could make him understand. He’d left their lives, but Angel knew he still cared.

She’s aware it wasn’t very fair to press that advantage, but. It’s been a long time since she’s wanted anything like she wants this.

There is the matter of figuring out what to do with her new position now that she has it. It’s not so easy as hiding under Gaige’s wing and being swept along for the ride, as much as she’d like that. Today, for instance, Gaige is unable to make it to practice because she has an exam to do, leaving Angel to make her own way to the Wrecking Ballroom rather than carpooling.

Usually, when Angel arrives for practice, Fiona and Sasha are already in their skates and ready to go. This time, though, the captains are sitting together on the edge of the track, talking tersely.

“You were just saying last month that you wanted a new set before the season started,” Fiona says, her arms folded over the railing in front of her. The bottom bar is at the perfect height for her to lean on.

Sasha has a skate in her hands, spinning one of the wheels idly with her thumb. “Yeah, but it’s like getting a pair of skates from the devil. They’re shackles.”

“Oh, you’re being _dramatic_.” Fiona elbows her sister, smiling. “And they’re _nice_ , blood money or not.”

“Not as nice as the ones with the frogs I stole when I was nine.”

“No matter how much you’d like it to be, shoplifting is not actually sticking it to the man, Sash.”

Angel looks down at her own feet. The new skates just came in; Rhys had given her a set. They’re part of the rebranding of the Bullet Babes, matte black skates with gold stripes and yellow wheels. New uniforms are on their way as well, apparently. Angel had been sort of excited about that, about the unity that came from being part of a team with the same kit.

Fiona looks up, spots Angel nearby, and smiles for her. For all that Angel is apparently the daughter of the enemy, the captains have never treated her like that. “Hey.”

“Hi. I’m…” She bites her lip. “You know if you just wore your skates, Rhys wouldn’t stop you.”

“And what? Go up against sponsor teams in cheap gear?” Fiona shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, Angel.”

“Speaking of,” Sasha says, wrinkling her nose as she starts to pull on her skates. “Pick a name yet?”

“A name?” Angel thinks back to all the things Gaige had mentioned, and it comes to her. “Oh, a— a derby girl name? I get to pick that?”

“‘Course you do.” Fiona climbs up gingerly, hand braced on the railing and sliding to her wheeled feet with practiced ease. She spins easily to look at Angel. “See, we’re the Hollow Point Bullet Babes. And traditionally, you theme it up. So, I’m Rushin’ Roulette. Sasha’s DJ Maylay.” Sasha nods and tosses Angel a wink over her shoulder. “Tina’s something about bombs…”

“C-Euphoria,” Sasha provides.

“Right. And your pal’s picked 12 Gauge, which is pretty solid, in my opinion.”

That was clever. Angel nods along, considering it. She’s never been very good at… violence? Gun-related puns? But the idea of picking her own name and being someone else entirely on the track definitely has its appeal.

She smiles. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Well, while you think about it, start doing laps,” Fiona orders. “We’ve got to work on your form.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a little more nerve-wracking, being at practice without Gaige. Fiona’s friendly enough before and after practice, but during, she’s hard, her face severe and eyes narrowed. Angel has yet to see her look actually pleased with anything she’s seen. In a weird, low-key way, it bothers Angel, who’s used to not having to put a lot of effort into things to excel at them.

Skating is different. Training to be a jammer is different. A sharp mind doesn’t translate to her body, and while she’s fast, she’s not too great at it yet, gets nervous weaving between the markers spread out over the floor. Fiona shows her how to get low to the ground, to tuck in small and keep her momentum, but as soon as Fiona turns away, Angel feels like she’s misplaced the directions. It’s frustrating.

The third time Angel messes it up and throws herself into the flat middle section, someone new says, “Let yourself be frustrated. Don’t bottle it up, channel it into your movements.”

Angel turns in place, nearly losing a foot out from under herself in her haste as she spins to find who this person is.

Up on the edge of the track, an older woman is leaning against the railing. Her hair is an inky blue and drawn back, out of her face. If Angel thought Fiona could be cold, this woman is like meeting an ice sculpture, and Angel’s voice catches in her throat.

“You have plenty of speed,” the woman says. “But this isn’t speed skating. You need to learn to throw and take a hit.”

“Are you…” Angel frowns and drifts closer slowly, the easiest glide. “Are you on the team? I didn’t see you at tryouts.”

“Freelance. Felix contracted me to help out the team in their transition to the sponsor league. I’m Athena.”

“Um. Is that your name or your other name?”

She smiles; it lights up her hard face so much, it’s staggering. “Real name. I’m not on the team roster since I’m not an official member, so I don’t currently have a registered derby name. What about you?”

“Still thinking about it.” Angel smiles back tentatively. “Been playing long?”

“Yeah. Got into it when my girlfriend was dragging me to every single match. Got signed to the Atlas team, but _they_ went under. Good riddance.” Athena moves fluidly, swinging her leg over the railing, switching sides easily with a swivel of her hips before sliding down and joining Angel in the middle. When Angel takes a nervous step back, Athena levels a glare at her. “See, that’s what I mean.”

“Sorry?” Angel wraps her arms around herself, leaning back.

“Stop that. When you’re on this track, you don’t need to be smaller, you need to be bigger. When someone comes in too close, you knock them the hell away. This is a gladiator’s ring and we’re warriors, understand?”

Angel nods, even though that sounds a little extreme to her. She doesn’t feel like warrior at all, just a girl with no muscle memory to speak of. But Athena’s right about one thing; she’s watched enough derby now to know its a contact sport. As much as Gaige has been at her side during practice and boasting almost chivalrously that she wasn’t going to let anyone get close to Angel…

It would happen, and Angel needed to learn how to handle it.

“So, how do I learn to, um. Be a… warrior?” Angel asks.

Athena nods, satisfied. “Right answer.” She hitches a thumb over her shoulder. “Start doing laps. When you get up to speed, I’m going to try to take you out.”

Right. Angel sweeps past Athena and starts at the bottom of the banked track. This part is easy; she pushes, forcing the soreness out of her legs as she propels herself forward. Before long, she’s on her way to her top speed, taking the bank up high on the bends and rocketing through the straights. As she does, she keeps checking her peripheral, sees Athena still standing there, watching.

When she turns her head to check again and sees Athena is gone, Angel feels like herself jolt, like she’s received a shock. It takes a concentrated effort not to whip around and try to locate her. That would be entirely besides the point.

A brisk tap on her shoulder makes her whip her head around, just in time to see Athena shake her head, looking unimpressed. “Don’t _look_ , react. Again.” Athena’s hand plants between Angel’s shoulder blades and pushes, sending her forward again.

This time, when the tap comes, Angel lunges out her leg, falling low and towards the inside, away from Athena. “Better!” she hears, and grins.

Next, Athena comes up beside her and pushes her, hard, right before the turn. Angel curses quietly to herself as she accidentally moves out of bounds. The second time, Angel manages not to swerve as much, moving towards the inside, then swinging back up high on the bank.

For a while, it’s that easy. Athena does a move that throws Angel off, and Angel figures out what she’s _supposed_ to do to avoid it.

It manages to go wrong, eventually, pretty inevitably.

She sees Athena coming this time, and decides to react first instead of seeing what Athena intends. Dropping as low as she can, Angel lets Athena’s arm sail above her head, slowing just enough to drop behind her.

As soon as she’s out of Athena’s sight, she uncurls, and just happens to put her face into Athena’s elbow as it swings back.

With a cry, Angel claps her hand over her eye as it bursts with sharp pain. Putting a hand out, she slows quickly, relieved when she feels Athena grab her hand in a firm grip.

“Easy, easy, come here,” Athena says, and guides Angel to a stop. “The bench is here, sit down.”

“Ow.” Angel feels out with one knee, bumping into the bench and sinking gratefully down onto it. “ _Ow_ ,” she says again, with feeling.

“Blind spot. Sorry.” Athena’s hand is much gentler as she curls her fingers around Angel’s wrist, pulling. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Angel lets her hand be drawn away.  She squints, pained, up at Athena, who whistles lowly.

“That’s going to turn some pretty colors later,” Athena says wryly. “I hope you weren’t planning on seeing out of that eye tomorrow.”

Angel doesn’t worry about tomorrow. Her concern is much more immediate, because when Rhys sees, he’s going to _flip_.

 

* * *

 

Through a lot of sneaking around and hiding in closets, Angel manages to avoid Rhys for most of the day. It goes pretty well, with Rhys spending most of his time in the office, handling management things that no one else seems interested in. He comes out to watch occasionally, but there’s still a weird distance. It’s not what Angel expected when she learned Rhys was manager.

But by the end of the day, Angel’s eye _hurts_ , and no amount of ice can stop the swelling once it begins.

Changing out of her skates, she goes to Rhys’ office, still holding the ice pack to her eye. “Hey, Rhys?”

For a moment, Rhys doesn’t even look up, finishing reading through something on his desk. When he does, his face goes slack, mouth dropping open. “Oh— oh my _god_ , Angel, what—”

“I caught an elbow with my face, don’t freak out,” Angel says with a grin. Smiling hurts a little. “My first derby injury. It’s okay, I took my medicine, it’s just a black eye.”

“ _Just—_ ”

“Can you drive me home? Please?” She bites her lip and presses her toe against the floor, turning in place. “I’m _really_ fine, but my eye’s swelling, so.”

“Oh my— okay, stop, I see what you’re doing, you’re not fifteen anymore, stop the... cute thing.” Rhys drags a hand through his hair, sighing. “Okay. Home. Let’s get you home.”

As they leave, she can see the way Rhys is brimming with concern and with the urge to tell her off. He’s an easy read, always has been with everything clear on his face. Angel places her hand on his arm, leaning a little on him, like she’s having trouble. To her complete lack of surprise, Rhys’ arm goes around her waist, steady and supportive. She smiles to herself, letting him lead her to his car.

The car ride is quiet but for the radio and Rhys’ singing, half-snatches of mumbled song. A wave of nostalgia hits Angel, memories of being a kid, back when Rhys first started driving her around. He sung along with the radio, but never when he didn’t know all the words. It was some personal _rule_ of his.

As they pull into the villa, Rhys stabs the radio’s off button. “Your father’s home.”

Which… changes things. Angel chews her lip, thinking. From the door to her room, she _has_ to pass her father’s office and the kitchen, the two places he’s most likely to be. “I could… say that I got in a fight at school?”

Rhys snorts. “Angel, you’re in college now. If someone gives you a black eye, that’s assault and Jack’s going to want names so he can destroy them.”

“Rhys,” Angel breathes out, looking across the car at him.

Rhys stares back at her for a moment, then sighs, sagging back in his seat and thumping his head against the headrest. “Okay. All right.” He punches the button, killing the engine, and climbs out of the car.

Together, they slip into the villa as quietly as they can. Rhys even bodily lifts the front door a little as he opens it, because it squeaks loudly otherwise. Angel keeps close, letting Rhys walk at her side, his arm on her shoulder, putting himself between her and the open doorways into the other rooms.

Angel keeps her head down as they pass her father’s office, but the moment they pass, she darts out from under Rhys’ arm, bolting the last few feet to her room and ducking inside, closing the door behind her.

Back flat against it, Angel reaches up to prod at her sore eye. This close to the door, she can hear the footsteps on the other side and her father’s surprised, “Rhys? Angel?”

Angel grits her teeth and waits. _Come on, Rhys, please_ , she thinks desperately.

“Jack, hey. Hi.”

“ _Hi_ , Rhys,” her father says, sounding bemused. “Finally grace us with your presence, huh, pumpkin? Where’s Ange?”

“I— I was dropping her off. We ran into each other at Easy Tiger, had lunch. She doesn’t feel well right now, so I dropped her off.” Rhys is not a great liar, but makes up for it by steamrolling on. “How about you, how’re… things?”

“Things,” Dad repeats, so quiet Angel can barely hear it. “Fine, yeah. Dinner’s stew, but I guess Ange’s not up for it.”

Actually, after all her work at practice, Angel’s _starving_.

There’s a tense silence outside her door for a moment, one that makes her stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. She leans her head back, barely breathing as she strains to hear.

“Up for it, cupcake? I can show you some of the Gortys fabrications the lab’s playing with.”

She hears Rhys sigh. “I should… Uh. What… what kind of stew?”

“Not the spicy one, I know you’re a wimp, you’re like the weakest link in all of Texas.”

“Well, _thanks_. I guess I could— just to catch up on Gortys.”

“Yeah, that. C’mon, princess, you’ll like the mock-ups I have.”

Two sets of footsteps fade away as Angel finally breathes again. She wanders to her bed, sitting down hard and bending forward, her elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

It’s not fair. None of it’s fair.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

It was late in the villa when Angel finally finished her homework. English was always the toughest subject for her to get through; Rhys was always able to help her with math and science, and her programming classes were so second-nature to her, she barely devoted any time to it.

But for English, she sat with Uncle Tim drinking birch beer and surreptitiously checking Cliff Notes when his back was turned, muddling through the mandatory Shakespeare of the semester.

When she finished her paper, Uncle Tim sat beside her on the floor cushions, turning her laptop to read through. “Nice, Angel. How much is cribbed from a reference site?”

“Only the thing about the witches,” Angel answered dutifully.

“Okay. Just make sure you don’t word-for-word any of it.” He patted her back, nodding approvingly. “You should backdate it to Monday so it looks like you started it earlier instead of the night before it was due.”

“You’re a very wise man.” Closing her laptop, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Night, Uncle Tim.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

Gathering her things, Angel left her uncle’s part of the villa, bumping the door closed behind her, her arms full. It was late, the cicadas chirping in the night, a few fireflies flitting around. When she was younger, Angel had loved that she lived in a place with fireflies. Now, at sixteen, they were just another bug that got in her hair and made her yelp, hurrying inside to get away. They were always prettier from a distance.

She dropped off her things on her bed before realizing she’d not seen Rhys since dinner.  More than anything, Angel wanted to put aside her homework and maybe play something, perhaps Diablo. But she couldn’t turn in for the night without saying goodnight to Rhys. It was a routine, one she liked, even as she got older and perhaps too mature for such things.

Rhys wasn’t in his room or in the living room. Her father’s office was dark, and the kitchen was clear. Angel frowned, padding through the house quietly, trying to listen.

Her only hint was a flicker of light, just barely visible through the kitchen window. Following it, Angel pushed open the patio door and peered out into the dark.

There was a gazebo just a few yards away. The light was off, but with the moonlight shining on the lake behind it, Angel could just make out her father and Rhys, leaning on the columns. There was a faint orange glow— a cigarette. Dad had cut back a lot on his smoking lately, but still indulged sometimes, mostly when he thought Angel couldn’t see.

Angel bit her lip, waiting, wanting to go say goodnight, but not wanting to interrupt.

Rhys was laughing, a low soft chuckle. “No, thanks. I’ve already got enough bad habits of my own.”

Her father scoffed, the tip of his cigarette lighting up his face with delicate embers as he took a drag. “Since when? Put you in a dress and they’ll make you Miss Congeniality, what friggin’ _bad habits_ do you have?”

“You, for one.”

Dad grinned, incendiary as a candle wick, even in the pale light and shadow. “Aw, sweetheart. Is that what I am? Get that twitch in your fingers when you think of me?” He took a slow smoke. “Need that _hit_?”

The smoke plumed out of his mouth like a dragon, avaricious with a hand settling on Rhys’ hip.

Angel had seen her father play like that before, just pressing people to make them react, pouring too much at them to make them flinch, like it was a victory.

Rhys, though, didn’t flinch, just blew at the smoke to dissipate it, and smiled back.

Oh no. Oh god, it wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair._

She stumbled back, letting go of the door, flinching as it banged shut, and hurried away, back to her room.

Angel, sometimes, times like these, hated her father. She really did.

She wasn’t in her room more than a few seconds before Rhys followed, knocking perfunctorily on the door jam before letting himself in. He seemed even more tall and distant than normal from Angel’s seat on the floor. “Angel, was that you? Are you okay?” He went stiff all over, like a cat in a thunderstorm. “Are you crying?”

“Don’t act like you care,” Angel spat, turning her face away, resting her cheek on the wall. She’d curled up at the foot of her bed, into the little gap between the baseboard and her dresser. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you and _Dad_.”

She refused to look at him, just knew Rhys was silent for a moment before he stepped closer and sank down onto the floor next to her. “Angel…”

Any other day, the soft tone of his voice would have been comforting. Tonight, she squeezed her eyes shut against it. “He _always_ does this. He _always does this_. Things can’t _not_ be about him, _for_ him.” She tucked her face into her arm, feeling her cheeks go hot.

“Angel, that’s not true.”

“How would _you_ know?” she snapped back, still refusing to look at him. “I grew up with this. We always moved because of him. He even made Uncle Tim come with us. He signed me up for half my classes because they’re what _he_ likes.” Every word hurt coming up, like they were acidic in her throat, stinging painfully in her chest. “Y—you were supposed to be for _me_ , but I guess he forgot. Guess h—he couldn’t stand that forever.”

“Angel.” His voice was even softer, cajoling. “Angel, please look at me.”

She shook her head hard, eyes still shut.

Rhys sighed, quietly. “Okay. I understand.”

“No, you don’t. I—I never had a parent until you and now…”

“I understand, Angel,” Rhys repeated in the same near-whisper. “I promise. And I’m sorry.” His hand, the new metal one, alighted to her ankle, curling in a loose grip, the thumb stroking up and down. “I’m going to talk to your father. It won’t happen again. Okay?”

She opened her eyes and found her vision was blurry. God. Wiping them on her sleeve, she focused on Rhys, his intense stare, the concerned inward curve of his brows. Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, she croaked out, “He won’t— Dad always—”

Rhys’ lips were white as they pressed together. “I can handle your father. It’ll be alright, Angel, trust me.”

Hesitantly, she nodded, dropping her gaze back to her knees after. Rhys’ hand lingered for a moment before he leaned in, pressing his lips to her hairline before he stood and quietly left the room.

Angel slept fitfully, feeling sick to her stomach, startling awake at every noise. Deep in the night, she turned to see a light under her door, shining from Dad’s office. Next she stirred, it was dark, and the house was silent.

In the morning, things were so _normal_ , Angel wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing, if it was just another bad dream. It wouldn’t’ve been the first time she’d dreamed of her father casually, thoughtlessly stepping on her attempts of a life, she thought bitterly.

Rhys read over the print-out of her English paper at breakfast while Angel had cereal. He mentioned her doctor’s appointment that day, and was so _normal_ …

It wasn’t until her father came in and poured himself a cup of coffee that she knew last night was real. For once, Dad didn’t stay, just took his mug and left without a word and as quickly as he’d came.

He only stopped in the doorway, and looked back at them. Rhys kept his eyes on her paper, but Angel saw how her father looked at Rhys with dark, clouded eyes.

Then, for just a second, he looked at her before heading back to his office, and Angel had never seen her father look so resigned, so lost.


	8. Chapter 8

Somehow, Rhys ends up slipping out of the Lawrence family’s villa at 6AM. He wishes it was the first time he’d done that. The only good part about how this kept _happening_ was that he was getting very good at ignoring Jack’s gaze from the bed as he gathered his clothes and got dressed.

It’s still hard, every time, but privately Rhys hopes it never becomes easy. Somehow that’d be an even worse betrayal.

All that aside, Rhys has work to do. The team’s debut match is approaching, and while he trusts Fiona and Sasha to have everyone ready in time, Rhys has paperwork to finish filing.

It’s a gift. Rhys keeps telling himself that. Jack had a weird way of showing affection, but this was one of his kind gestures. It took some time to understand it, just like it took time to understand most of what Jack did, but Rhys gets it now. He wasn’t happy back in Robotics, after the Gortys project left his hands. Unfortunately, he’s not sure he’s much happier now. But he’s willing to give it more time. It’s hard to blame Fiona and Sasha for the tension, given what they’ve been going through.

Still. He wishes it were a little easier, that he felt like himself again. He hasn’t since he left the villa, honestly.

At least there are distractions, though. Today, Rhys arrives at the Wrecking Ballroom to a delivery. The courier drops off a set of boxes in his office before leaving with Rhys’ signature.

Opening one, Rhys smiles. He’d ordered them as soon as he had the team’s sizes, but they’d taken some time to make and ship. He hopes they’re be worth it; the team needs a little unity, he feels. Fiona and Sasha are thick as thieves, of course, and get on well with Tina, who’d been on the team before it was bought and was the only person to remain signed on with them. Athena seems very dedicated to the team’s cause, but in a weirdly mercenary way. Gaige fits in well enough, but Rhys has a hard time imagining someone Gaige _couldn’t_ get along with if she wanted.

And Angel. Rhys has no idea how she’s doing with the team. Everyone’s welcoming enough, he supposes. She seems to be having fun with it, the errant black eye notwithstanding.

But Rhys led Robotics at Hyperion and was part of the Gortys team from the beginning. He knows group cohesion, and doesn’t feel it with the Bullet Babes. Not yet.

Excited to see if this would help, Rhys calls a team meeting pretty much as soon as everyone arrives.

Each team gets its own locker room, and this one still smells faintly of paint from the rebranding. It was Atlas’ old room, repainted gold, red, and black. Rhys had overseen that work, and lets himself be pleased at how nice it all looks.

When everyone’s settled in, Rhys drops the boxes on a spare bit of bench. “Morning, team. I have something for you all, just arrived today.” He drags his metal fingers through his hair, smoothing it nervously. “Which is good timing, I think, since we’ve all had a chance to… get to know each other and work together for our debut.”

Fiona crosses her arms and her leg over her knee, posture just closing off as she frowns. “We still have a lot of work to do on communication and team unity.”

Rhys is unsure what to say for a moment. He was hoping-- well, he didn’t know the mechanics of the game very well, but the team had been together long enough he’d assumed it would be going well. “Well, you know, maybe this will help with the whole team unity thing, actually.”

He opens the first box, then slides it further down the bench before opening the next one.  When no one moves, he worries that no one is going to hop in and help, but thankfully Tina springs up, all relentless energy as usual. “‘Kay, ‘kay, what’d we get from our sugar daddy this time, eh, ladies?”

Relieved, Rhys hangs back and watches the team check out the boxes’ contents. Soon, the new uniforms are being pulled out and unfolded. Each set has a buttoned shirt with rolled sleeves and stage names written on the back, black shorts with gold stripes and trim, and new fingerless gloves. To his complete lack of surprise, Sasha and Fiona seem reluctant to even _touch_ their uniforms. Thankfully, Athena pulls out hers and holds it to her chest to test the size, nodding in a silent, satisfied way. That seems to pave the way for everyone else grabbing theirs.

“This one is missing a sleeve,” Sasha says as she unfolds another shirt.

“Actually, it’s supposed to,” Rhys replies.

Gaige throws up her hand. “Toss it here, babe, that’s for me to show off my sick guns.” As she catches it, she grins at Rhys. “Thanks, bossman. Thought I was gonna have to break out my seam ripper.”

“Vital part of the amputee toolbox,” Rhys agrees with a sympathetic nod. “Figured I’d save you some time.”

“Nice.” Standing, Gaige tugs her tank top over her head. Behind her, Tina wolf whistles, and Angel…

Rhys frowns at the strange, wide-eyed look Angel shoots Gaige, the surreptitious way she glances away. Hm.

“You up for giving Rhys a show?” Fiona asks softly.

Rhys can’t help snorting, looking at Gaige in her sports bra as she works her metal arm into the shirt. “I can turn around if you want, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Been there, done that, didn’t stick around for the t-shirt.”

Pursing her lips, Fiona narrows her eyes at him. “What’s that mean?”

Beside her, Sasha says, “Fi, oh my _god_ ,” and elbows her sister hard. The two look at each other, Fiona’s eyebrows drawn low, confused. Sasha sighs. “Later.”

“O...kay.”

Over her shoulder, Sasha shoots Rhys an apologetic look. In return, Rhys just smiles, and winks once; it’s hard to be upset about it, really.

“Helmets?” Athena asks, and the tension pops like a soap bubble.

“Oh, I got an ETA on that delivery. I’ll go check.”

“Good,” Fiona says, finding her voice again. “All right, let’s go do some stress testing, everyone. Skates on, get out on the track.”

 

* * *

 

Rhys leaves them to it, retreating to his office to confirm that the helmets would be arriving soon probably before the weekend. After, he couldn’t help wandering out to the ballroom, wanting to see the team in their new colors. Jack had gotten final approval on the wardrobe change, of course, but Rhys had been the one to pick everything out. It was nice to see they’d turned out alright.

Leaning on the railing, Rhys watches with a faint smile as they all loop around. For a while, it seemed dangerous, the way they weaved around each other, but lately he gets it, that the thing with Angel’s eye was an outlier. The team’s coming together, he thinks, and it’s nice to watch.

He folds his arms over his chest, squeezing tightly, not sure why that’s not as much of a comfort as it should be.

He hovers around the stands for most of practice, handling business on his phone as the team throws themselves around the track. When they finally stop, it’s in a little huddle, all of them in a loose circle. Rhys feels his smile fade as he watches from the side.

“Not bad, I’ll say that much for them,” Fiona says, gripping the hem of her shirt and tugging it down hard, like she’s testing its sturdiness. “If I have to dress like a sellout, at least I’ll be a good-looking sellout.”

“That is the idea,” Athena offers dryly, “with selling out.”

Next to her, Tina gasps loudly. “Ohmigod, oh my _god_ , we have Hyperion money and we’re _not_ having milkshakes. We need milkshakes. There should be a milkshake in my hand every minute’a every _day_. I want Playboy bunnies to follow me around holding my milkshakes. And all the milkshakes need curly straws.”

“Dude,” Gaige says. “The tiny one speaks truth. From the mouths of babes indeed.” Her arm slings around Angel’s shoulders with a casual, tactile familiarity. “And I know this girl’s not been to the shop down the street.”

Angel grins at Gaige, cheeks pink. Her fingers knot together, knuckles as white as her smile. “Is it very good?”

“They’re practically derby sponsors, they’re such a cool after-practice tradition,” Gaige says.

Fiona puts a fist on her hip and shoots Gaige a look. “Why do you know so much about the Sponsor league? Like, seriously.”

Snapping her fingers and pointing at Fiona, Gaige replies, “The time I could take coming up with an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a creepy superfan could be better used heading to the milkshake place. They have mocha banana with cherry syrup, Fiona. Please consider wisely.”

“Ohmigod, adults talk too much, let’s _go_ ,” Tina says, interjecting. She skates over to grab Athena’s hand, of all people, and drags her along to the track, taking it quickly. Rhys steps back as he watches how Tina climbs out of the bowl, levering Athena out with her.

“Uh, d-does everyone need a ride?” Rhys finally offers. “I mean, I have my car, I could take everyone.”

Climbing out as well, Sasha hums loudly. “Your little hybrid?”

Tina flings up a hand. “Dibs on holding onto the bumper and coasting after the car!”

“No,” Athena says sternly. The look she gives Rhys is apologetic, but quickly discarded as she turns back to help Fiona and Angel out of the track. “It’ll be easier on skates, honestly.”

Sasha nods along. “Yeah. Maybe next time, Rhys. And if Gaige is right, it’s some kind of team tradition thing. Let’s try it out.” She gives his arm a soft punch. “We’ll get Angel home before dark, and no more black eyes, promise.”

“A team thing,” Rhys repeats to himself as he watches them all roll their way out the doors. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

Rhys’ apartment is not too far away from the Ballroom, at least. Getting there involves driving through downtown, which is a mess this late in the day, but he’s ahead of the evening crowd at least, and that’s a huge relief.

He manages to hit the light right underneath the Hyperion building, and can’t help craning his neck a little to peer up at it. The facade is dark marble and mirrored glass. He almost wishes it wasn’t so opaque; he’s curious if the top floor, Jack’s office, would still be lit. Jack often spent too much time at work, so it was likely.

Before he can think on that too much, the light changes and he’s on his way again.

He lets himself into his place, nudging the door shut again with his hip. There’s a motion sensor that catches his entrance, and the light in the kitchen flicks on for him. The sun is already under the skyline, and it’s dim inside, and quiet.

Rhys tosses his keys in the ceramic bowl with his spare change and Hyperion ID passes. The bowl’s handmade, and pretty good for a fourteen-year-old’s best efforts, with brown glaze with blue flowers painted on. There’s a crack in it, long since repaired with superglue.

For a moment, Rhys just stands in his apartment, looking around, momentarily unsure what to do.

Sighing from deep in his chest, he shakes himself. “Get it together, come on.”

He has a few things in his fridge, mostly leftovers from restaurants, because he was in the habit of always taking half his food home. His life would have been easier if he just took some time to learn how to properly cook, but until he moved out of the villa, he’d never needed to. Jack had always taken a lot of enjoyment out of cooking dinner for them. So, Rhys got complacent.

There’s a leftover taco from Torchy’s and some texmex from Trudy’s. Rhys puts them all together and shoves them in his oven to heat up. Grabbing a beer, he stands at his counter and drinks slowly, staring out the window for a while.

Some time later, he’s taken out of his standing doze by the sound of his phone vibrating against the counter. He leans over it and thumbs it open.

It’s a text from Jack. _How’s the team going pumpkin_

He tries to think of an answer to that, something Jack would like that wouldn’t be an outright lie. Before it comes to him, the oven dings, and Rhys steps away.

Leaving the phone on the counter, he grabs his food and wanders over to his sofa to eat and watch something. He’ll come up with something to say later.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

There were worse ways to wake up than to a thirteen year old staring at you like a creeper, but there were also plenty of _better_ ways.

A year ago, Rhys would not have been in this position. It wasn’t until a few months ago, when Rhys had been late to pick up Angel for school because a massive pile-up on the highway. After, Rhys had apologized profusely, and Jack had said, “This is stupid, we have a spare room. Have it, it’s yours.”

And by the next week, Rhys had mostly moved into the guest bedroom across from Angel’s room. As much as he didn’t want to impose on Jack’s hospitality, living at the villa _did_ make his job much easier.

But it also led to this.

Angel grinned as soon as Rhys opened his eyes. “You’re awake!”

“Am I?” Rhys asked, genuinely unsure. “I don’t think I am.”

“Come on, you said I can’t be in the kitchen without supervision and I want to make breakfast!” She reached out and shook his shoulder. “Mooooooom.”

“Angeeeeel,” Rhys moaned, rolling over onto his back and slinging an arm over his eyes. “’Kay, m’up, just gimme a few minutes.”

Angel obligingly crawled off the bed, tossing an, “I’m going to check on you in ten minutes,” over her shoulder before leaving him to it.

That gave Rhys five to doze, at least. Eventually, he went to find Angel, a sleep shirt dragged on over his boxers. Anything beyond that seemed like overkill. It was Sunday, and last night had been a late one, with Angel playing games with Timothy until past midnight. Somehow, that didn’t tire her out like it had Rhys. It seemed deeply unfair.

Angel smiled sunnily at him as he shuffled into the kitchen. “I made coffee,” she announced proudly, pointing to the still-steaming mug sitting under the spout. “It has the vanilla syrup.”

“I’m feeling spoiled,” Rhys said. He lifted the lid of the one-cup maker, throwing out the coffee pod before picking up his mug and going to the fridge. A splash of milk later, he sipped his coffee, sighing deeply. “Or, I would, if someone had let me have some real sleep.”

“It’s ten, Rhys.”

“It’s Sunday, Angel.” Nevertheless, he joined her at the island, looking over the notebook she had open. There was a page filled with her neat, rounded handwriting, all in green ink. “Honey ricotta tart.”

She nodded. “I can do it all, but you have to supervise.” Before she even finished speaking, she darted away, filled with a youthful energy that made Rhys’ _bones_ ache.

“I think I can handle that.” He watched as she dug out ingredients from all over: butter, sliced almonds, the good honey that came from the farmer’s market in a great mason jar, lemons, eggs. She took a bowl out of the fridge, cheese cloth hanging off the edges and a blob of soft cheese inside. Stealing an almond slice, Rhys asked, “Do you need a sous chef?”

“What’s that?” She didn’t look up from her collecting, this time bowls and a round pan joining everything on the island.

He took a long sip of his coffee first. It was bracing, warding off his tiredness. Soon, he might even feel like a human being again. “Sous chefs help the head chef in a restaurant by prepping and finishing dishes for them. If the food is complicated or has a lot of steps to it, it’s the sous chef’s job to handle as much of it as they can.”

“Sous means under. So they’re under the chef.”

“Mmhm. When the chef’s gone, they’re in charge.”

“Under chef makes me think of…. of the chef sitting on the sous chef’s shoulders as they work on dishes together,” Angel said as she started making a crust. She handed the lemons to Rhys with a grater. “Like, the main chef just leaning over to put that fancy drizzle stuff on the plate. Can you zest these?”

“The drizzle stuff’s called an emulsion. What happened to me just watching?”

She shrugged. “You looked bored.”

He wasn’t, but appeased her anyway, because it was always hard telling Angel no. Together, they got the ingredients ready for crust, and Angel took over, mixing it all together before pressing everything into the tart pan. Her hair fell into her eyes as she worked, and after letting her try to blow it away a few times to no avail, Rhys got up and stepped behind her, using his flesh hand to gather it all back.

The crust went into the fridge, and Angel turned on the oven before checking her notebook. “I have to make the filling now. Which one’s the food processor?”

Rhys pointed it out, and settled into his coffee, keeping his eyes on her as she worked most of her ingredients together into a mush. It was a great smelling mush, though, with cinnamon and nutmeg emanating from the mixture.

After the noise of the processor died, Rhys showed her how to take out the business part inside, and they both carefully ran their fingers over the flats of the blades, tasting the cheese honey goodness. Angel nodded with a serious set to her face, and retrieved her crust from the fridge. As she poured it all in, she asked, “How do you become a chef?”

Rhys sat again, leaning his chin on his hand and finishing off his coffee with his prosthetic. “I’m not certain. There’s culinary schools, and I think there’s different specialties. Like, this here would be a pastry chef thing, I think. They’re trained in baking and desserts.” He swallowed the last of his drink. “Why, interested?”

“Maybe. I think it might be fun.”

Jack chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, his shirt rucked up as he scratched his stomach. His hair was _stupendous_ , flipped the wrong way and heavily mussed in a way Rhys would have thought of as sex hair if he didn’t know Nisha was out of town. “What’s fun, and why is it so loud?”

“Food processor, sorry,” Rhys said.

“Being a chef,” Angel said, sprinkling the almond over the top of the tart.  A few she picked up with her fingers, setting the oval slices into the tart in flower patterns.

Jack frowned. “You’re not going to be a programmer like your old man?”

Rhys shot him a glare, frowning. Jack caught the look and simply looked confused.

“I dunno,” Angel said, glancing over her notes. “Oh, I didn’t write down how long it cooks for. Be right back!” She ducked past her father and down the hall, towards her room.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jack turned his attention to Rhys. “What’d I say?” Leaning over, he looked into Rhys’ mug, plucking it up when he saw it was empty, and carried it over to the coffee maker.

“Instantly reminding her what _you’d_ like her to be after she mentions something she’s interested in.” Rhys shook his head. “Not great.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean it like that.” He looked over his shoulder, meeting Rhys’ eyes. “She mad?”

“I don’t think she noticed. But still. Be supportive.”

Jack fired a lazy fingergun at him. “Will do, Mom.”

“Funny, _Dad_.” Sarcasm was heavier on his tongue than the cheese-honey mixture had been.

It got him _another_ confused look, Jack’s eyebrows lifted and quirked. “Grumpy, or just tired?”

“Caffeine-deprived. Put some vanilla in mine.”

Without another word, Jack took care of the coffee, setting Rhys’ mug back in front of him and clasping a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “She could take after you,” he mentioned idly.

“Okay, one, that’s… really not how it works. Two, that’d be programming again. Trying to stack the deck, Jack?”

“I meant professional mom. Less likely to get accused of nepotism there, I think.”

Rhys snorted. “Is that joke going to die?”

Jack made a soft noise, staring into his own coffee. “What joke?”

That… gave Rhys pause. He’d known Jack for years now, and in the sort of intense, thorough way that only came from seeing each other daily and working together. Hell, Rhys _lived_ in Jack’s house now, which only made him more acutely aware of Jack’s habits and how he communicated. There were weird nuances to his speech, and Rhys knew enough about them now to realize that Jack’s wasn’t kidding.

The _mom_ thing kept happening. First from Jack, when he’d hired Rhys, then from Angel, who said it as a joke, then not as a joke, a slip up that made her ears go bright red. Jack had picked it up from her again, like he’d been reminded of it, and it was added to all the _other_ names he called Rhys, fitting in next to the likes of _pumpkin_ and _sweetheart_ and _cupcake_ , just as saccharine but just as genuine.

 _Huh_ , Rhys thought to himself, and sipped his coffee.

Angel returned, interrupting the conversation with a cheerful, “Thirty minutes! Then we’ll have a tart! Well, it’ll have to cool, but _then_ we’ll have tart.”

“Will the tart be a tart tart?” Jack asked, smirking like he was being clever, even as Angel groaned, rolling her eyes.

Rhys let himself sit quietly, just watching them over the brim of his mug, relaxing into the easy comfort of the weekend morning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's been a long time. Sorry about that. Whole life upheavals make writing hard. I'll spare you the details.

Gaige invites Angel out skating on the weekend. “You need the practice, girl,” she explains over the phone. “On the track, you’re golden, but the skates gotta be an extension of your body if you wanna thrash Jakobs.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Angel points out, smiling. “I’m just the jammer.”

“ _Just_ the point scorer for the team, whoo boy. And I didn’t mean literal thrashing, that’s _obviously_ my job. But the metaphorical inevitable thrashing of Jakobs-- look, lets go skating! Don’t make me the sad weird girl out there on my own!”

Angel agrees to go, because she was always going to say yes. And afternoon out with Gaige beats coursework anyday.

It’s the first day Angel has been able to go out without slapping makeup on her eye. The swelling’s gone and the colors have faded to just a slight discoloration of her skin. It’s a relief; she’s never been great at makeup in general, and covering things up was harder.

At least Rhys had shown her how, the first day the swelling had faded enough that covering up the black eye had been a possibility. Angel had sat on his desk in the Ballroom as he showed her how to take care of the worst of it.

“You’re good at this,” she’d said.

“Once upon a time, I was,” he’d agreed with a smile. “Don’t have to be anymore, thank god.”

Now, it’s simply a tender spot that she’s finally learned to stop _poking_ at, and she’s fairly confident that Gaige isn’t going to be put off by a bruise anyway.

The opposite turns out to be true.

“You didn’t take a pic of your first derby injury?” Gaige asks, aghast, as she skates lazy loops around Angel, waiting for her to get her own skates on. “Babe, c’mon.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to?”

“I have a selfie showing off every one of my injuries. Ooh, wanna see?” Gaige rolls to a stop near Angel, her phone in hand. “Call it the greatest hits folder. Geddit?”

‘Greatest hits’ is a large folder indeed. Angel takes the phone gingerly and thumbs through the photos. Plenty of colorful bruises, two casts, and a whole artist’s palette of bandaid colors. It’s a gleeful collection of brutality, with Gaige’s brilliant, nigh-manic grin featured in every shot. Angel lingers on one, a photo of Gaige’s hip bruised in a webbing pattern, wincing. “How are you alive?” she asks, awed.

Gaige flexes proudly. “Surgical steel, duct tape, and attitude! I’m a cyborg, I’ll live forever.”

Following Gaige around downtown is a perfect afternoon. Even though Angel’s lived in Austin for years and knows plenty of-age classmates, she rarely spends time in this area. It’s always busy, especially on weekends. Now, though, Gaige makes things easier. On and off the track, Angel gets the feeling Gaige will protect her, always quick to put herself between Angel and anything that makes her uncomfortable. Angel has no idea why, but it’s wonderful. She wants to say thank you, but is afraid if she draws attention to it, Gaige might stop.

There are times Angel looks at Gaige and is reminded of Rhys; they share that protective streak, as strong and integral to them as their own spines.

She doesn’t think of the implications of that, but she’s heard it all before, how girls look for aspects of their parents in…

Angel looks askance at Gaige, watching her skate with one foot swung behind her, coasting along on four wheels, and wonders if this is a date. It feels like one, but Angel’s never been on a proper date before, has no idea how to tell. If she were to ask someone about it, though, it’d be Uncle Tim, who…

At the thought of him, Angel perks up and looks around at the restaurants, shops, and clubs they’re rolling past.

“Whacha lookin’ for?” Gaige asks.

“Oh, nothing just… I think my uncle’s club is around here? He’s in a band and plays at… the Live Wire?”

“I know where that is!” Reaching out, she catches Angel’s fingers, drawing her along behind as she twists and turns back up the street. Angel hangs on, like she’s at the start of a whip without the follow through.

Halfway back up the street is the Live Wire. In the early afternoon, the doors are open, the lights bright, a more inviting environment for lunchtime patrons. “Usually they have a guy at the door,” Gaige points out.

There’s a surprising amount of people inside, and Angel falters at the front. “Oh, I don’t know… it’d be… weird to go in, not find him, then leave, you know?”

Gaige considers this before her face lights up. “Lightbulb! Is he a tall guy?”

“Sure?”

“Awesome. Hold still,” Gaige says in brief warning before rolling over to Angel and lifting her up, arms wrapped around her, just under her ass. With an undignified yelp, Angel pinwheels for a moment before grabbing Gaige’s shoulders, bracing her as she’s hoisted into the air.

“Um?” Angel manages, looking down.

“Don’t look at me, look for your uncle! I can’t do this all day!”

“Okay, okay!” Shaking herself, Angel cautiously lifts her head, trying not to shift too much in case Gaige overbalances. But, from this high she can see into windows better and getting a better view of the day’s patrons.

Uncle Tim sees her before she sees him, squinting at her from one of the corner tables like he’s unsure what he’s seeing. Angel lifts a hand to wave, and he slowly raises his own in greeting.

Gaige lowers Angel. “I’m gonna assume that means you saw him.”

“Yeah, far back at the right. C’mon.”

Navigating a rather full club in skates is a mean feat, but Angel manages. In the back of her head, she can hear Fiona’s voice, guiding her through drills, how to shift and pivot past a crowd. To her silent delight, Angel manages to dodge everyone without stopping, smooth movement across the floor to the back table.

Uncle Tim has a table to himself, though there are wet rings of condensation around him, as if he’d shared lunch with a few other people. He makes a show of leaning over to look at Angel’s feet. “Those are new. What, the hand-me-downs I dug out of the garage weren’t good enough?”

Gaige takes the moment to sling her arm around Angel’s shoulders (which is always fun to see, given the height Angel has on her). “Bullet Babes gotta coordinate, and our slamma jammer has to have state of the art quad skate technology, you know?” She waves her metal hand in greeting. “Gaige, blocker. I hear you’re the cool uncle.”

Angel feels her face grow hot. How did she not see this was about to happen? She hasn’t told anyone about the derby thing, only Rhys knows, but _Gaige_ didn’t know that no one knew, and oh god, she was in so much trouble. She’d gotten so caught up in having fun with Gaige, she didn’t _think._

Tim’s gaze flicks to Angel, just enough to see her distress, before he relaxes back against his seat. He keeps his eyes on Angel as he says, “I am the _coolest_ uncle.” He grins at Gaige. “I own an Xbox and everything.”

Gaige whistles and lifts her fist, and the two do a fistbump with wiggly fingers and explosion noises. Angel isn’t sure how she feels about it, really. “U-uncle Tim, this is Gaige. She interns at Hyperion.”

“What position do you play?” Tim asks.

“Blocker.”

“With a metal arm? Is that allowed in the regs?”

“Hey, I got padding and it’s been whole _days_ since I gave someone a concussion!”

Tim laughs, a quiet, almost giggle that was just one of the many things that set him apart from her father. “Well, good for you. Nice to meet one of Angel’s friends. But I have a rehearsal soon. Playing a gig tomorrow.”

“Niiiice,” Gaige enthuses.

“Angel,” Tim says, standing and putting a hand on her shoulder. “We talk later, okay?”

“Right,” Angel says, the tension in her chest coiling tighter, a lead knot nearly unbalancing her as Gaige grabs her hand and wheels them both out of the bar.

 

* * *

 

It’s totally Angel’s intention to get home before her uncle, to get him alone and beg him to be merciful. It’s all she thinks about as she and Gaige leave the bar and head back onto the street.

But she’s distracted by things. Gaige’s enthusiasm over a smoothie shop she knows, then the fact that Angel’s never had a funnel cake, which demands a search all through downtown to locate the right food truck. It’s fun, a breathless exhausting kind of fun that takes the air right out of Angel’s lungs.

So, it’s approaching sundown when she finally gets home, and as she climbs out of the Uber, she can see across the villa, see Uncle Tim and Nisha on the porch, heads bent in conversation. As soon as she steps closer, both of them turn to look at her, and Angel is so nervous her heart’s in her throat.

It’s a real effort to keep walking, especially when Nisha stands, smiling in that cool, enigmatic way she has. She whistles quietly, and reaches out to cup Angel’s chin, tipping her head back and tilting to look at her eye. “I bet that was a beautiful bruise when you got it.”

The words burst forward before Angel can think better of it and keep her mouth shut: “I know it’s stupid, Nisha, I know that I-- with my condition I shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ derby but it’s so… it’s so _good_ and _I’m_ good at it, and-- and Rhys is there, he keeps an eye on me.” She sucks in a sharp breath, goes on. “I’ve never had something like this and everyone’s excited to have me around, I’m the jammer, I score points for the team, and Dad would never let me play a sport but I-- I-- I’m stronger than he thinks, I swear I’m not being reckless, just--”

Nisha presses a finger against Angel’s mouth. “Breathe, sweetie.”

Easier said than done, but Angel stops, makes herself take a deep breath through her nose.

“There. Now, for the most important question.” She puts his hands on her hips, fixing Angel with a narrow look. “What is your derby girl name?”

Angel blinks, momentarily thrown. She glances past her, at Uncle Tim, who smiles gently and nods. “Oh, um. I’m Thrash Override. It’s-- it’s a programmer joke, it’s from this movie…”

“Oh, I remember that one. Or, uh, parts of it.” Tim coughs, cheeks pink before he goes on. “Jack’d get a kick out of that.”

“He can never know,” Angel says, pleading. “He would be _so mad_ , and-- and you’d get Rhys in trouble besides!”

Nisha snorts. “I can’t imagine Jack being angry at Rhys for _anything_. What’s the problem?”

“Rhys…” Angel hangs her head, reaching down to toy with the tail of her belt, sticking out from her loops. “You c-can’t play derby if you’re underage, unless you have a parent signature.”

“Oh, _Rhys_ , honey.” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “Even now he’s still so bad at saying no.” As Angel continues to fidget, Nisha reaches out and stills her hand, using it to pull her along to the bench swing. Without a word, Tim scoots over, making room, and Angel soon finds herself ensconced between Nisha and her uncle. It’s almost too warm, but the sun’s setting and the Texas heat is releasing its grip, the air off the lake cool enough to let Angel curl up comfortably. She rests her head on Uncle Tim’s shoulder.

“I certainly understand why you’re keeping this hush-hush,” Tim says, breath stirring Angel’s hair. “But, you know, he _will_ find out. You’re on a team _he owns_ , eventually he’ll accidentally pay enough attention to notice. When he finds out you’ve kept this from him, he’ll be upset. Are you prepared for that?”

Angel bites her lip and shuts her eyes. “God, he’s going to hate me.”

Nisha barks out a laugh, covering the sound quickly with a cough. “Ange, honey, no. Jack’s _incapable_ of hating you. He loves you. He’s just… not always sure how to show it.”

Angel frowns and keeps her eyes shut. “I just want something that’s mine. I feel like I’ve never…” She stops, because it stings too much. The only thing that was hers, Rhys, her father almost took that away too, thoughtlessly and carelessly.

Her fists clench as she thinks about the empty guest room in the villa and how lonely life was now. But she can’t tell Nisha and Uncle Tim that. They won’t understand. She barely understands herself, why things changed.

Swallowing, she says, “I’ll-- I’ll fight for this. But I don’t _want_ to, you know?”

She hears Nisha sigh softly, and feels her nails around her ear, tucking her hair behind. “I know, sweetie. But try to have a _little_ faith in your father. I know it’s hard.”

Angel huffs out a breath and shakes her head silently. Sometimes, it felt like the Jack everyone else knew was a different person from her father.

Still, when Nisha waits and squeezes Angel’s arm, she gives in a little. “Sure. Okay.”

It’s entirely hollow, and she thinks all three of them know that.

 

* * *

 

Faith is difficult with her father.

Angel is never quite sure who Dad is going to be any given day. Sometimes, he’s a vibrant fun person who doesn’t quite feel like her _parent_. There are other times when he’s absolutely her dad, for all the good and ill that carries with it. And there are days where he looks at Angel and she can see how unbalanced he is, like she could topple him over with a feather and a hard word.

And the real trial is that he’s never the right man when she needs him.

So trust doesn’t come easily, especially these days. When she had Rhys, it was fine, because Rhys was always Rhys, and it worked. Angel would forgive her father anything so long as she had Rhys there for her.

Now, though.

On Saturday, Rhys has a meeting with Dad, bringing him up to speed on his derby team impulse buy. The office door is left open and because she can’t help herself, Angel stands nearby listening, as if waiting for the whole charade to be up. It’d take Rhys slipping up and mentioning her just once and she’d be ruined and _Rhys_ would be in trouble. The idea of it has her twisting her fingers together almost painfully.

But it doesn’t come to pass. Eventually, the little meeting winds down and Angel retreats to the kitchen as she hears her parents standing and moving around again.

In the kitchen, Angel pulls a glass from the shelf, thinking fondly of the sunshine tea in the fridge. When Rhys walks in, she picks up a second glass and shakes it, eyebrows lifted in silent question.

Behind Rhys, her father leans against his shoulder. “It’s late, Rhysie. How’s about dinner?”

Instantly, something dims in Rhys’ eyes as he looks aside, not meeting either of their gazes. “Uh, well… It’s late, like you said. I should get going before the drive gets any worse.”

Dad frowns with something like genuine confusion. “But it’s Saturday. There’s nothing on tomorrow, why not just…” He waves a hand to the screen door. “We could sit by the lake, somethin’.”

Rhys turns enough to see Dad’s eyes, and for a second Angel thinks he’s going to say yes. It’d been so long since they ate together. Really, without Rhys there with them… Angel had gotten used to dinner alone. Dad always had work, and without Rhys there to enforce family dinners…

God, she wants him to say yes so bad she can taste it, which is probably why the spell breaks, and Rhys shakes his head. “No, I don’t… Not tonight, Jack. But thanks.” He lifts his head enough to smile wanly for Angel before ducking past Jack and out the door.

Hearing the front door open and close feels like failure. Angel just isn’t sure whose it is.

Dad sighs, shoulders slumping as he turns and retreats back to his office. If Angel lets this go, she knows she won’t see him again for the rest of the night.

After about ten seconds, Angel follows him, walking straight up to his desk. Without any further coaxing, words slip out of her mouth. “Are we ever going to be happy again?” She points in the vague direction Rhys left in. “This is-- it’s awful. It’s been months and none of us are _happy anymore_! It’s so goddamn--”

“Language,” Jack chides mechanically, staring down at his desk.

“Can’t you just…” Her fingers tense in the air, grasping at nothing. “Just admit you were wrong and make him come back? He’s not happy either. Is…” She wraps her arms around herself, squeezing. “Is this worth being right?”

That gets Dad to lift his head, and he _stares_ at her, that same confusion writ large on his face. “You… think I told Rhys to leave?”

That makes her pause, but only for a second before most bursts out of her. “You didn’t? Then why--”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Because you didn’t need a nanny anymore.”

“Don’t _call him that_ , he wasn’t my _nanny_.” She grips her arms tighter, nails biting in. “He never was and this is just _stupid_ , why d-does it have to be this way?”

“Because--!” He starts, then stops just as quickly, slumping forward on the desk, leaning his face into one palm. With his good eye, Dad lifts his eyes to her again. “I’m not allowed to own people, Angel. Everyone tells me so.” With a headshake, he leans back, turning his chair enough to look out the window instead of at her. “It should’ve been the right thing to do. Getting Rhys for you. For us.” The corner of his mouth tips up, humorless and mean. “Now I’m not sure.”

Angel circles around the desk and throws her arms around her father’s shoulders, bent awkwardly at the waist. It’s as much a surprise to her and him, and she stays there, hiding her face against his shoulder until he defrosts and returns the gesture, one of his huge hands resting on Angel’s back, rubbing up and down. Only then does she manage to say, “It was, Dad. It was the nicest thing you ever did for me.”

She can’t even look at him as she pulls back and hurries to her room, dragging the heel of her hand over her eyes.

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

Angel woke up to the sound of her bedroom window being firmly closed and cracked one eye open to look around, spotting Rhys in her room. It was daylight, but just barely, and Angel whined, pressing her face into the pillow.

She felt Rhys’ hand rest on her head, a warm heavy weight. “Go back to sleep. Just closing up the house before the storm.”

Angel nodded, eyes held shut until she fell back asleep.

Later, she woke up to the sound of thunder in the distance, rumbling in a way that made Angel think of a cat’s purr. Though, given how loud and low it was, maybe a tiger’s purr. Did big cats purr? She wasn’t sure, but hoped so.

If Rhys hadn’t woken her up, that meant there wasn’t anything on their schedule for the day, and she could take her time. With that in mind, Angel rolled over, didn’t bother climbing out of bed for another ten minutes.

When she eventually padded down the hallway, looking for Rhys, she found him out on the patio outside the kitchen. He was sitting on a wicker chair, pulled back enough to be clear of the rain.

He looked up as she pushed the screen door open. “Morning, sleepyhead. Or, is it even morning anymore?”

Angel shrugged. “What’re you doing?”

“Watching the rain. We don’t get a lot of it around here, best enjoy it while it lasts.” He tipped his head back against the chair, looking up at her. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his other arm, the sleeve of his tee just hanging open. If there was any marker of a lazy day, it was that.

She could understand it a bit. The idea of sitting still for so long seemed kind of boring, not when she could be getting on Dad’s computer to look up cat facts, but the lake did look pretty with the rain coming down. There were puddles forming in the grass as well, and the water was so clear, it would have been invisible but for the ripples.

Angel managed to stand still for a few moments before shooting Rhys a silent look, wondering how long he was going to sit out here.

Eventually, Rhys huffed, chuckling softly. “Okay, okay, I can feel you eyeballing me. You want breakfast?”

She thought about it. “We still have those mini cupcakes, don’t we? The cherry limeade ones.”

“That’s not a breakfast.” He looked up at her, considering it. “Oatmeal with the dried blueberries, and you can have one mini cupcake after.”

“Deal,” Angel said, beaming and hurrying back inside to put the hot water on. Anything to speed up the time between her and cupcakes.

Breakfast morphed into a lazy afternoon. The wind picked up, and Rhys had to keep inside or get pelted with rain. Things around them grew louder, the distant rumble turning into full on whipcracks of thunder that made Angel yelp and Rhys stiffen, both of the startled by the noise.

Rhys put an arm around Angel, tucking her in close for a second. She whined. “I’m not scared.”

“Maybe I am,” he replied smoothly. “How do you feel about a movie? Maybe some drinks?”

That sounded great, honestly. It was always fun to watch Rhys make them something. He stole into Dad’s office for a moment to steal a few things from his cabinet, setting them out on the kitchen island.

Angel wasn’t sure what went into Rhys’ drink. Well, she knew the Coke and the bright red syrup, but not the other thing he added a splash of. For her, though, he filled a tall glass with ginger ale, the grenadine, and added about five extra cherries in with the ice.

She beamed as he presented it to her in all its pink fizzy glory. “One Shirley Temple for you.”

Angel sipped from the straw, tilting her head. “Who’s that?”

“Oh my god, you make me feel so old,” Rhys moaned, laughing. “Come on, I know what we’re watching now.”

They set up in the living room on the sofa, a pillow placed on the coffee table for Rhys to put his feet up on. Angel in turn put her feet on his legs and sat against his side as he subjected her to a lot of weird, old movies. Angel wasn’t that interested in them and found the girl in them a little off-putting. After sitting through two, Rhys caught her eyes and smirked. “Okay, how about I show you a _good_ old movie?”

“There are good ones?” Angel asked, blinking guilelessly.

“Hush, you, I’ll show you.” And Rhys put on _Arsenic and Old Lace_ , which was still weird but was much funnier.

Partway through, Rhys perked up, leaning over to look out the window. “Oh no. Jack’s home. Rain’s coming down in _sheets_ out there…” He bit his lip and looked down at Angel. “I really should get him an umbrella…”

Angel looked down at them both, how settled in they were.

“Yeah,” Rhys amended. “I’m way too comfortable anyway. He’ll live.”

She caught a quick flash of her father running past the window, a blur amidst the heavy downpour. A second later, the front door opened and Dad walked in. He was soaked, hair flat against his head and clothes dripping.

Rhys whistled and pointed down the hall. “Throw all that in the bathtub or something, god’s sake!”

Dad snorted. “Your concern means the world to me, buttercup.”

“Hurry up, you’re dripping on the wood floors.”

It was always a little satisfying to Angel to see how quickly her father responded to Rhys’ commands. He pouted, but obeyed, slinking off quickly and tracking water in as he moved. Distantly, there was slow squeak followed by a thump.

Rhys leaned his cheek on Angel’s head. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Eventually, Dad reappeared, a towel around his neck and his works clothes swapped for pajamas. He stepped in close enough to see the TV, glancing between it and the two of them on the sofa.

Rhys lifted his head, smiling. “Old movie day. Want to join us?”

Dad didn’t say anything, simply nodded and circled around the back of the sofa, careful not to block the view. The sofa shifted as he settled in on Rhys’ other side, leaning back with his arms stretched over the back.  “ _Arsenic_?”

“S’best black and white film I know of,” Rhys replied quietly, shifting back to rest against Dad’s arm.

“Blasphemy. What about _The Thin Man_? _Bringing Up Baby?_ ”

“ _Thin Man_ ’s too old for her, but… God, I forgot about the panther movie. We can do that one.”

“It was a leopard,” he said, then got quiet again. “And… Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. If that’s… I mean, yeah.”

Angel frowned across at her dad, wondering what had him acting all weird. But that was the end of it, and the three of them settled in together. Dad’s arm reached across Rhys’ back, his hand resting on her shoulder.

After a moment, his hand moved, just enough it wasn’t touching her. Somehow, that felt wrong to her.

As Rhys queued up the next movie, Angel silently lifted her hand, linking her fingers with her dad’s, tugging it back on her shoulder.

The look he gave her then was… Angel honestly didn’t know what it meant. Her father was strange and hard to understand most days.

But he smiled, and stayed like that for the entire movie, and his laughter was louder than the storm outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been so long, do i even know how to write anymore?????? who knows


End file.
